The Tempest and Oasis
by Tasting Raindrops
Summary: This is the 100th Hunger Games, a Quarter Quell unlike any other! Follow and sponsor your favorite tributes as they battle for freedom, for life, and for love. Rated T because it's the Games. *And please ignore the ugly temporary cover...*
1. Urgent Message from President

Plush Buetern was typing away on her screentop, fuming over the previous night. She plowed through her files, filling in new details concerning the upcoming 100th Games, a Quarter Quell. For the first time ever, she was so caught up in her thoughts that she skimmed over her typos and grammatical errors without a blink.

Why should her husband treat her as though she were the gum he tracked in on his neon orange boots? Why didn't he respect her? She was second in command of the Hunger Games! Obviously, _some_ people realized that she deserved appreciation. _But oh, no! Thome is too high and mighty to believe that _anyone_ could be of _his _value,_ Plush thought. _He's a king in his own little world and doesn't notice anyone else… not even his own wife…._

Abruptly, a red light blinked in the corner of her screen, an alert for a new message.

Pushing aside her thoughts, she tapped the notice. Four words blared across her screen:

**URGENT MESSAGE FROM PRESIDENT**

Startled and a bit anxious, Plush opened the message. Her fingers were crossed, praying that the president wasn't angry. She read the short note without breathing.

_**I won't ask you again, Buetern. I need those tributes. Now.**_

_**If Gregorrie doesn't have the list, you make it. I don't care who creates it or how they are decided. Just give it to me.**_

_**If I don't have that list by tomorrow… you're out. So get it done.**_

_**- President Mullen**_

Plush's breath whooshed out of her like a deflating balloon, along with her confidence. How was she supposed to come up with twenty-four tributes in twenty-four hours? Everyone knew that Burtle Gregorrie wasn't doing his job as Head Gamemaker, so it was no question that he wouldn't have a list ready. That left everything up to Plush, a decidedly bad thing. If she came up with any good ideas, Gregorrie would get the credit. If she came up with anything not so good, Plush would be blamed.

Trying to stay calm, Plush closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. If she focused, she could get it done.

When she opened her eyes, Plush was ready. Even though she didn't have the title, she knew that she was really the Head Gamemaker. It was her job to make sure that this Game was unforgettable.

* * *

Okay, I know I've already got a SYOT story going, _Into the Fire_, but I've run dry on it. I can't seem to get anywhere in it, and I've hit a wall of writer's block. That being said, I've decided to clear my head a bit by doing something fresh in the hope that some time away from attempting to write ITF will allow me to continue it eventually with an open mind.

Now that I have some experience with this kind of story, this should run much smoother than my first… in theory, anyway.

To begin the improvement, I will actually have my own form this time! So, here it is….

**Name:**

**Gender:**

**Age:**

**District:**

**Appearance **(please be detailed, I like to know exactly what the character looks like)**:**

**Hair-**

**Eyes-**

**Skin Tone-**

**Height-**

**Build-**

**Any Other Details-**

**Personality:**

**Background:**

**Family** (include family members and their pasts, along with the family's wealth and status)**-**

**Friends** (don't forget to put their ages and gender)**-**

**Hobbies** (what do they enjoy?)**-**

**Strengths **(please elaborate on why they have the strengths, if applicable)**:**

**Weaknesses** (same comment as 'Strengths')**:**

**Strategies:**

**Romance/Alliance(s):**

**Reaping Outfit:**

**District Token:**

**The Interviews:**

**Angle-**

**Quote** (this is optional)**-**

**Misc.:**

**Chosen/Volunteered **(describe reactions to being chosen/volunteering)**-**

**Career?-**

**Anything Else-**

Please be detailed when filling out the form! It makes my job a heck of a lot smoother if I know _exactly whom_ the tribute is. And I love, love, love unique and well thought out tributes! If you would like to submit more than one tribute and make a subplot amongst them, feel free! And, feel free to submit through review or PM, either works just fine. If I need any more information or have any questions, I will let you know, and let me know if you have any questions yourself.

The district list and their professions are as follows (I hope this is correct, let me know if the books say otherwise, please!):

District 1: luxury items for the Capitol

District 2: mining gems (also unofficially provides Peacekeepers)

District 3: electronics and technology

District 4: fishing

District 5: mathematics

District 6: scientific research

District 7: lumber and paper products

District 8: textiles

District 9: food processing and hunting

District 10: livestock

District 11: agriculture

District 12: coal mining

Also, right now I just want tributes! Plush only wants tributes right now as well. She only has time to do one thing at a time, so she will be looking for stylists and arena ideas later.

Lastly, this is the 100th Hunger Games, so it is a Quarter Quell. Plush and I already have a plan for what it is going to be, but I'm not going to say just yet. With what is planned, let's just say that unique tributes with talents unlike the usual Careers might actually be better off than in a normal Game…. Anyway, you guys will find out what the twist is when the tributes find out. However, if you do have any ideas, feel free to let Plush and myself know. We are open to suggestions, and we might just change our minds….

I'll put post a list when I start getting tributes.

Oh, and I'll go ahead and get the disclaimer out of the way, so here it goes

_DISCLAIMER:_ I do not own _The Hunger Games_.

There. :)

-Tasting Raindrops-


	2. The Tribute List and Other Characters

Plush was slouched at her desk, screentop still alight, snoring. She had been up until the late hours of the night, trying desperately to figure out a list of tributes by noon the next day. At that time, she would be forced to hand the list over to Gregorrie to read to the assembled meeting at which the president would be present. Of course, Gregorrie would claim the work as his own if the president seemed to be pleased by it, or he would accuse Plush of having given him the unfinished list and then punish her.

An angry Gregorrie came to life in Plush's dreams, brandishing a whip and ferocious smile. "_I'm_ the Head Gamemaker," he snarled. Then he pulled the whip back before cracking it forward, right at Plush.

She woke with a start, arms flying out, a scream caught in her throat. _Thank goodness I finished the coffee last night,_ Plush thought, relieved, as the mug clanked to the floor. _And that the glass was break-proofed._

Now wide-awake, Plush woke up her screentop to reveal her tribute list.

And sighed with relief when she saw it.

She had finished the list with a couple hours to spare. _Thank goodness._

* * *

Here is the final tribute list! Plush is so relieved.

**TRIBUTE LIST**

DISTRICT 1 (luxury items for the Capitol)

Female- Chatreuse Thatcher, 13 (EmilyBlaire)

Male- Onyx Gem, 18 (xXB-A-C-O-N Spells LOVEXx)

DISTRICT 2 (mining gems and unofficially provides Peacekeepers)

Female- Silver, 16 (TealCrystalCAT)

Male- Lucius "Luc" Greystone, 18 (sleetinthesummer)

DISTRICT 3 (electronics and technology)

Female- Kai Taka, 17 (Chris Taka)

Male- Wylie Freeman, 17 (pattyo123)

DISTRICT 4 (fishing)

Female- Elana, 15 (Voler Libre)

Male- Falcon Jones, 17 (sassyk100)

DISTRICT 5 (mathematics)

Female- Jewel Johnson, 12 (littlejunior98)

Male- Samuel Lee, 18 (EmilyBlaire)

DISTRICT 6 (scientific research)

Female- Jenna "Jen" Perry, 14 (Fragrance-Of-The-Paradox)

Male- Prescott Richardson, 17 (AnimeBean)

DISTRICT 7 (lumber and paper products)

Female- Callie Mackren, 17 (Fwoggeh)

Male- Kienan Chapman, 13 (pattyo123)

DISTRICT 8 (textiles)

Female- Lynna "Lee" Rassorvanni, 14 (RipredtheGnawer)

Male- Johnny Whiplash, 14 (24)

DISTRICT 9 (food processing and hunting)

Female- Artemis deLune, 17 (xXB-A-C-O-N Spells LOVEXx)

Male- Corwin Saelem, 14 (Kylie Max)

DISTRICT 10 (livestock)

Female- Savi Walden, 15 (Immortal42)

Male- Jeremiah "Germ" Springfield, 16 (GamerKnight)

DISTRICT 11 (agriculture)

Female- Kaitlyn "Kat" Martin, 16 (CatLoverCato)

Male- Aren Jamez, 12 (beast456)

DISTRICT 12 (coal mining)

Female- Cassi Hodge, 13 (sassyk100)

Male- Gabriel Raymondson, 15 (Fragrance-Of-The-Paradox)

**ESCORT LIST**

DISTRICT 1- Zafrine Sylvie (xXB-A-C-O-N Spells LOVEXx)

DISTRICT 2- Rimia Brooks (CatLoverCato)

DISTRICT 3- Sigrun Zearna (Chris Taka)

DISTRICT 4- Nathanial Shine (GamerKnight)

DISTRICT 5- Potion Cadway (sleetinthesummer)

DISTRICT 6- Porcelaina Kleeman (sleetinthesummer)

DISTRICT 7-

DISTRICT 8- Taliana Marsco (Kirbetsy)

DISTRICT 9-

DISTRICT 10-

DISTRICT 11-

DISTRICT 12-

**STYLIST LIST**

*Feel free to request if you want your stylist to be the female or male tribute's stylist. If you don't state a preference, I will put the stylist with the tribute I think would work best or make the story most interesting.

DISTRICT 1

Female tribute's- Dawn Frost (TealCrystalCAT)

Male tribute's-

DISTRICT 2

Female tribute's-

Male tribute's- Vivacious Doxen (sleetinthesummer)

DISTRICT 3

Female tribute's- Vase Talisman (sleetinthesummer)

Male tribute's-

DISTRICT 4

Female tribute's-

Male tribute's-

DISTRICT 5

Female tribute's- Almaya Flutters (sassyk100)

Male tribute's-

DISTRICT 6

Female tribute's-

Male tribute's-

DISTRICT 7

Female tribute's-

Male tribute's-

DISTRICT 8

Female tribute's-

Male tribute's-

DISTRICT 9

Female tribute's- Iris Kalliet (xXB-A-C-O-N Spells LOVEXx)

Male tribute's- Linger Maki Needle (Kylie Max)

DISTRICT 10

Female tribute's-

Male tribute's-

DISTRICT 11

Female tribute's- Ismene Eurydice (sleetinthesummer)

Male tribute's- Eteocles Haemon (sleetinthesummer)

DISTRICT 12

Female tribute's- Delvin Sames (sassyk100)

Male tribute's- Shahnal Fabe (sassyk100)

**MENTOR LIST**

*The Game that is listed by each mentor is the one that they won. Please make sure that you don't submit a mentor with the same Game won as another. It will save some trouble. :)

**Feel free to request if you want your mentor to be the female of male tribute's mentor. If you do not state a preference, I will put the mentor with the tribute I feel is best or will make the story more interesting.

DISTRICT 1

Female tribute's- Merlin Thatcher; 98th Games (Chatreuse's brother; EmilyBlaire)

Male tribute's- Ren Gem; 80th Games (Onyx's father; xXB-A-C-O-N Spells LOVEXx)

DISTRICT 2

Female tribute's- Jangle Teal; 77th Games (sleetinthesummer)

Male tribute's- Jessa Carmichael; 97th Games (sleetinthesummer)

DISTRICT 3

Female tribute's- Scath Kitsune; 90th Games (Chris Taka)

Male tribute's-

DISTRICT 4

Female tribute's- Wave Neptune; 93rd Games (TealCrystalCAT)

Male tribute's-

DISTRICT 5

Female tribute's-

Male tribute's- Solemn Tethers; 94th Games (sleetinthesummer)

DISTRICT 6

Female tribute's-

Male tribute's-

DISTRICT 7

Female tribute's-

Male tribute's- Falcon Davidson; 92nd Games (pattyo123)

DISTRICT 8

Female tribute's- Katrina Fern; 95th Games (CatLoverCato)

Male tribute's-

DISTRICT 9

Female tribute's-

Male tribute's-

DISTRICT 10

Female tribute's- Blaise Calder; 99th Games (Hbrooks)

Male tribute's- Savi's uncle; 79th Games (Immortal42)

DISTRICT 11

Female tribute's- Judia Ploughman; 42nd Games (sleetinthesummer)

Male tribute's- Rain Fire; 96th Games (Rainfire of Riverclan)

DISTRICT 12

Female tribute's-

Male tribute's-


	3. Mentors, Stylists, and Escorts, Oh My!

It was mid afternoon, and the meeting was in progress. It was a close call with the tribute list; the president, and a few other Gamemakers as well, seemed to waver in their confidence for it. Gregorrie had snuck glances at Plush the entire time, whether looking for help or sending death glares, she couldn't be sure. With Gregorrie, every facial expression looked the same: as if he had a bowl of rotten eggs shoved right below his nose.

As for the president, he seemed to be completely laid-back about the whole matter until the very end of Gregorrie's presentation. Then, he swiveled in his chair in the opposite direction of where Gregorrie was standing to stare straight at Plush.

"There seems to be quite a few younger tributes being drawn this year," he rumbled, his thin, wrinkled fingers tapping on the long conference table. "How do you propose this will work?" At the last sentence, the president turned back around to face Gregorrie. He seemed to be able to sense that Gregorrie lacked a good explanation.

He was right. Gregorrie's hands twitched, and he said, "Well, it's quite probable." He paused a moment to swallow. "Just because the risk is supposed to be lower for younger people, that doesn't guarantee them that they won't be drawn."

A voice spoke up from the farthest end of the table. "The districts are already beginning to suspect our tampering with the drawings." It was none other than Jassum Marks. Otherwise known as Plush's least favorite person in the world. He continued in a smug tone, "That many tributes under the age of fifteen is just not plausible."

_Darn him and his stupid, persuasive golden eyes,_ thought Plush. Any time Marks looked at anyone with his surgery-enhanced, wide-eyed gaze, they seemed to instantly melt to fill his molding. _I'll show him not to try that crud on my tribute list…._

Having been sitting in silence the whole meeting, several people raised their eyebrows when Plush spoke. "Excuse me, sir, President. Could I please say something?" Her voice was small, but her gaze was confident, or as confident as she could manage.

The president stared at her for a moment before nodding curtly.

Plush took a deep breath and said a bit louder, "Past Game statistics show that we actually get more Capitol viewers when there are more tributes of a younger age. They absolutely adore them." She took one more fleeting glance at the president before turning to speak to the rest of the Gamemakers. "And just as well, it is more likely that people will volunteer if a younger sibling is chosen, which always gets better reviews. Just look at the raving reviews when that girl Katniss Everdeen volunteered! We hadn't had anywhere near that magnitude of views before that point."

"Yes, it's quite a pity she… died," drawled the president.

Ignoring her anger at the president's insensitive comment, Plush continued, "And there's always the sponsors. The younger tributes seem to catch the attention of quite a few that steer clear otherwise." Having finished her speech, Plush looked back at the president to see his reaction. His face was carefully emotionless.

"It appears we have our arguments for both sides of the matter. Now we must vote. All those in favor of this tribute list, say 'Aye' and raise your hand."

Plush held her breath as the Gamemakers all made their decision.

As it turned out, everyone was in favor of her list besides Marks. He just sat, mumbling to himself and glaring at the table. The president didn't even bother to ask if anyone was against.

* * *

Now that Plush has gotten the tributes out of the way, new stylists and escorts are able to start applying for a job in the Hunger Games area, and previous ones need to reapply! She also needs to figure out which victors are going to be mentoring which tributes now. Please keep in mind with these characters that it's the tributes I'm focusing, so these characters might not be featured very much, but I will do my best to fit in everybody entered. Escorts do have a guarantee of at least being shown in the reapings, though.

Plush will also accept arena ideas to suggest to Gregorrie because he actually participates in the creation of it. That's about all he does as Head Gamemaker.

So here are the forms:

*If you want to submit an escort, please get that done quickly because I need to start writing the reapings, and I need them before I write any.

**I won't be waiting a very long for these to come in, so if you don't have time to submit one immediately, let me know and I will save you a spot. But please do your best to get the escorts in soon. I _will_ be accepting other mentors or stylists up until the chapter when they should first appear, though, so keep that in mind as well.

_For ESCORTS and STYLISTS—_

**Name:**

**Gender:**

**Age:**

**District:**

**Appearance **(feel free to be overly creative, though I don't want all of them too… outrageous)**:**

**Personality:**

**Anything else:**

*There can be up to two mentors per district, one for each tribute.

_For MENTORS—_

**Name:**

**Gender:**

**Age:**

**District:**

**Appearance** (these people are from the districts, so they look relatively normal and not all Capitol-Barbie like, except maybe the first two districts; I will except a bit more unusual looking for those)**:**

**Personality:**

**Age when they won the Games:**

**What Game did he/she win?** (84th? 92nd? 76th? Etc.)**:**

**How did they win their Games?:**

**What advice do they have for their tribute(s)?:**

**Anything else:**

Okay, there they are. I hope I didn't forget anything. I will make up any mentors, stylists, or escorts as needed; this is just for those who would like to submit one. I'm not going to wait for the list to fill up, so there won't be a wait for this to get done like with the tributes. As I said earlier, I will accept any of these kinds of characters until the chapter when the character should actually appear.

I'm going to try to set up a sponsoring system, but that won't be up until after the reapings are over, in case anyone was wondering.

That's it, I believe. Ta ta for now!

-Tasting Raindrops-


	4. The Announcement of the Quarter Quell

The room was crowded; people were bustling, scampering around to prepare for the president's live appearance on national television for the announcement of the Quarter Quell. People were delicately placing a worn box onto a stand that sat directly in front of the large camera. Reporters stood pressed against the walls, and cameramen were fussing with their instruments.

A loud ring went up through the crowd, and a man with a headset standing by the giant television screen on the wall shouted in the silence that followed, "Everyone, the broadcast starts in two minutes. Get ready, or get _out!_" Within no more than thirty seconds, everyone had evacuated the room save for a handful of cameramen and three of the highest-quality reporters. It was quiet but for the man who had spoken up earlier. He was murmuring into the headset and scrolling through a document on his screentop. A moment later he said, "And here comes the president."

Just then, the door in the left wall opened, and in strolled President Mullen. He was a tall, thin man with graying hair and sideburns. Though his skin was wrinkled, he was said to be only around 40 years of age. The rumors were that he had tried to get an operation on his skin that went quite wrong. No one dared confront to him on the matter, though, to see if it was true.

He spoke no words as he walked up to the box and waited until the lead cameraman counted down to airing time.

"Three… two… one."

The president plastered on a wide smile. He was a favorite among the Capitol citizens for his charisma that only existed when he was on television.

To begin the broadcast, he lists the past three Quarter Quells. Then he clicks open the wooden box and pulls out a yellowed envelope with the number 100 clearly inscribed upon it. Taking his time, he carefully opens the envelope and pulls out a piece of paper. "For the 100th Hunger Games, to show that even when the result seems clear, the Capitol has the power to change everything, at the final eight, there will be a new surprise in store for the tributes." The president still had his smile on, and gave a quick wave before leaving the room.

And the camera clicked off.

* * *

Okay, well, sorry for that poor piece of writing. I was anxious to go ahead and post something else, so this is the result. Anyway, I also apologize for that poor description of the Quarter Quell. First of all, I couldn't figure out what the explanation would be without giving away what I was going to have happen, although I don't think it will be very hard to guess something similar as to what's going to happen. I had to go with Plan B, and I don't feel that it is as original as my first idea, but, as it turns out, that one was just too complicated. Second of all, the Gamemakers decided that it would best for…certain reasons… that I will explain after the "surprise" is out of the bag, if I remember to, that it would be best to wait to reveal the Quell. So you guys shouldn't know exactly what it is for a while and neither will the tributes.

Anyway, _now_ I should be starting the reapings. These will probably take much longer to finish than these previous chapters because I'm going to be working much harder on them and they will be much longer. And I've got school stuff, too. This week is the week before exams though, so I haven't had much homework. But after next week, posts will probably be coming a lot slower, but I will do my best.

Goodbye!

-Tasting Raindrops-


	5. District 1's Reapings

**Okay, here is the first _real_ chapter! District 1's reapings. I hope you guys like it, but I won't know unless you review, now will I? So, please leave your comments. I'd love to improve, but I can't do that without critiquing, so feel welcome to.**

**Also, I've posted a list of all the other submitted characters under the Tribute List in case you want to check that out.**

**I did a disclaimer at the beginning of the story, but I'm going to go ahead and just start doing one for every chapter (not that the status is really ever going to change, though). So here it is:**

**_DISCLAIMER: _*sigh* I do not own any part of _The Hunger Games_. I know, it's a sad fact. For me, anyway. I also do not own any of the characters in this chapter.**

* * *

_**-Chatreuse Thatcher, District 1-**_

It's amazing the patterns that can be found hiding in the ceiling if you look hard and long enough. I spy a rat… and there's a tree. And if I really use my imagination, I can just make out a badger's head in that corner.

The candle on my bedside table allows me to see a couple feet around me. Everything is thrown into sharp shadows, the light and the dark, yin and yang.

I've been lying in bed for hours. I've tried everything I can think of to fall asleep: reading, burying my head under the pillows, flipping around so my feet are at the head of the bed, reading some more, lying on my stomach, even more reading, everything. Now I've settled for just leaving my eyes open until they are too tired to stay up. So far, it hasn't been working out for me too well.

Tomorrow — or maybe later today would be more appropriate — the reapings will be held, my second official one. And decidedly my last. Having an older brother who's a Victor does have its influences.

Sighing, I close my eyes hoping that _now_ I might finally be able to sleep. It wouldn't be a very good thing to appear bushed at the reapings, now would it? That's definitely not a turn-on for sponsors. It's not a very good way to start off the Games, either. If I have bouts of insomnia every time I worry, I'll die from exhaustion in the arena. Not a good thing.

_**-Onyx Gem, District 1-**_

"Skylar?" I whisper.

I gently shake her shoulder to wake her up. She moans and peels back her eyelids. "I'm sleeping," she whines, and rolls away from me. I smirk.

"Come on," I say, crouching so my chin rests on the edge of her bed. I pat her head affectionately and wait to see if she will respond. She doesn't. "Skylar?" I repeat.

Still no response.

"Okay, well, I guess I'll just go to the reapings without you." I get up and start walking towards the door. A squeak from the mattress's springs announces that Skylar is out of bed. It's followed by the pitter-patter of tiny feet, and then her small arms wrap around my leg.

She sniffs. "No, don't leave me, Onick." Her pronunciation of my name always makes me chuckle; it's one of the few things that do.

I look down at her wide green eyes. "You know I'd never do that."

After prying her chubby hands off of my leg, I keep a hold on one of them and lead her into the kitchen for breakfast. It is a quick affair; Mom already had toast and some scrambled eggs set out on the table. She and Dad weren't in the room though, probably getting prepared for the reapings. My _final_ reaping, thank God. Still, no matter what happens, today will no doubt be bittersweet.

_**-Chatreuse Thatcher, District 1-**_

Light pierces through the blinds in my room and insists I wake up. I guess that means I did eventually fall asleep. I groan and stretch before forcing myself into a sitting position. _Reaping day._

With the speed of a slug, I drag myself out of bed and trudge over to my closet. After absentmindedly flipping through my clothes, I pull out a suitable dress. I go to my full-length mirror and hold it up in front of my body. With my bed head hair and bleary eyes, it's hard to tell, but I think it will do.

In a kind of daze, I strip off my pajamas and slide into the dress. It's strapless and dark purple in color. The only problem with it is that it does nothing to hide the scar on my arm from when I fell out of that tree. I doubt anything nice will, though. Actually, it might be best if the cameras catch it when I volunteer. Give me a bit of interest.

Still standing in front of the mirror, I unweave my hair from its usual braids and let it fall around my face. It's blonde and wavy from the braids. I run my fingers through it, hoping to tame it a bit, but it's resilient, so I pull it up into a bun and claim myself presentable.

I pad out of my room on bare feet across the hall to my brother's room. Just two years ago, he was reaped. When he won, it was as if the whole family let out a giant breath that we had all been holding the entire time he was in the arena. The day he came home, my parents decided to have me start training for the Games in case I was ever a part of them. It's a good thing they made me. Practice will definitely help me in the Games.

I knock on his door and shout, "Knock, knock, anybody named Merlin home?" When the door doesn't open, I deepen my voice and recite from an old nursery tale my parents read to me when I was younger. "Little pig, little pig, let me come in!"

A faint, "Not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin," sounds through the door.

Suppressing a giggle, I reply, "Well, then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow you're door in!"

"I'd like to see you try," I hear Merlin say. "I don't think the Capitol would be too pleased with one of its finest Victor's houses destroyed. I can see tomorrow's news now. 'We have lost one of our finest in District 1, today. This pile of dust was the once-magnificent Victor's home. It was our pride, but now it has been damaged beyond repair. District 1 mourns at its loss," he begins in a sarcastic, nasal accent. "Oh, and also it appears that some remains of, um… Mervin Satcher were found on the site," Merlin adds as though it is an afterthought.

I can't help but laugh. The lock clicks, and I push on the door. It swings out without resistance, and I gingerly step into Merlin's room. Clothes lay scattered on the floor, his bed is a tangled mess of pillows and blankets, and a disturbing smell seems to be diffusing from a particularly large pile of filth by his wide-open closet door. Merlin is nowhere to be found.

_Maybe he tripped and then suffocated in all of his own [crud]…?_

I creep farther into Merlin's room. As I make to get a closer look at the putrid heap, I hear a click. I spin on my heal to see Merlin fling himself out from behind the closet door straight at me. Before I have time to do anything but squeak, Merlin has his arm around my neck and his other fist holding an imaginary blade pointed at my side. My shock must have pleased him because he sniggers and slackens his hold on me.

"You know," he says, "if you want to have any chance at winning the Games, you're going to need to pay more attention."

I shove him off. "How so?"

Merlin strides back to the closet door. "For starters, start thinking of life as one of those pictures where you have to spot the things that just aren't right." He steps behind the door again and asks, "What's wrong with this picture?"

"There's a shadow from your feet under the crack between the door and floor," I state after a moment.

"Exactly," Merlin says smugly as he walks back out. "Those are the kinds of things you need to look for. That will be the difference between your life and death in that arena."

Since I told him I was planning to volunteer a couple days ago, he's been doing all sorts of crazy things in 'preparation.' Mostly I think he just enjoys making a fool out of me, but I there seems to be a genuine want to help me in his actions. Except for the time he snuck a fly into my dinner. I'm pretty sure that was just to irritate me, but he claimed he did it because I was bound to eat a bug or two in the arena, whether on purpose or not, and that I needed to get used to the idea, and because I needed to take more notice of things. The latter seems to be a reoccurring theme in Merlin's lessons.

Merlin and I leave his room to get breakfast in a good humor, poking fun at each other the whole way.

After we eat, Merlin goes to get dressed for the reapings. Mom insists on helping him, much to his annoyance, with choosing his outfit and with good reason. For the last reaping — his first as a Victor, no less — he wore a wrinkled black shirt, navy blue pants, and dark brown shoes. To say the least, Mom was not pleased. The escort, Zafrine Sylvie, looked downright appalled. I was just doing all I could not to burst into hysterics the whole time he was up on stage.

Since I am already ready besides my lack of shoes, I plop down on the couch in our living room, close my eyes, and try to make up for a bit of the sleep I was deprived of last night.

_**-Onyx Gem, District 1-**_

Mom, Dad, Skylar, and I head for the reapings with thirty minutes to spare. We live in the Victor's Village, which is relatively close to the square, but my dad insists on getting there early. He's a Victor and would never do anything to make himself look bad in front of a camera.

Even though we make it to the square quite a while before the reapings were to start, it was already teeming with people. I say goodbye to my parents and pat Skylar's head before wandering over to the section roped off for eighteen-year-olds. I don't make any effort to talk to anybody, and nobody tries to talk to me. I push my sleeves up to my elbows and simply stand slouched in the corner farthest from the stage with my hands in my pockets, a bored expression on my face. No point in hiding the fact that I have no desire to be here.

My father is the first person on stage, and I can tell he takes pride in that. Glancing around, I'm able to find my mom in the crowd. She's having a conversation with another lady who probably also has a child at risk of being reaped. They both have frowns on their faces, and Mom's green eyes are downcast. Skylar, on the other hand, is completely oblivious to what is about to happen and is sitting on the floor by Mom's skirt, coloring with a blue crayon. She's only four and still has no idea what exactly the reapings entail, the lucky girl.

The square continues to load with people, and the stage at the front also fills with past the Victors, now including my grandparents on my mom's side, and the single escort. I just stare at the floor the whole time; even when the mayor begins his speech, I make no effort to listen. All I care about is getting this over with and moving on with my life. There are better things to do than sit around while the Capitol pulls our strings to make us dance, things like getting married and having a family. Much better things.

Only when the escort, Zafrine, the same one we've had forever, begins to head to the podium do I take notice of anything besides the beetle crawling along the floor a couple feet away from my feet.

Her rainbow metallic dress shines in the morning sunlight as Zafrine saunters over to the podium and grabs the mike.

"Hello, my district! Aren't you guys excited to see who your tributes are?"

Some people clap awkwardly, but a group of people standing in front of me who I recognize from training whoop and holler. Zafrine takes this as a positive response, and beams. "Well, then without further ado," she says as she plucks a piece of paper from the girls' bowl, "the female tribute shall be—"

She gets cut off by a young girl running towards the stage. "I volunteer!" she cries, her hand held up as if it wasn't already clear who was speaking. The girl skips up the stairs to meet a taken aback Zafrine.

"Oh," she scrambles to collect her thoughts, "right. And what might your name be?"

"Chatreuse," the girl gasps. "Chatreuse Thatcher."

Her name causes a stir in the crowd; most people recognize her last name. Her brother was the one who won the 98th Games. He was a tribute who was quite hard to forget. Chatreuse glances at him, and he nods encouragement.

The diamond studs beneath Zafrine's eyebrows glint as she raises them. She too knows the name. "Well, congratulations, Chatreuse. You are now District 1's female tribute! And the male tribute shall be…"

_Come on; let's get this over with…._

"… Onyx Gem! Come on up here!"

I blink. That is my name. _Huh._

_**-Chatreuse Thatcher, District 1-**_

The guy, Onyx, meanders to the stage, a smug smile planted on his face. His hair is black to the point where it almost appears blue and through his white button up shirt — with the top two buttons left undone — his muscles are prominent enough to be intimidating. He looked like he knew what he was doing, like he would be the one to come back. Like he could kill without remorse… kill _me_ without remorse.

Oh no. _What have I done?_

* * *

**So, there it is! Please let me know what you guys think — especially the people who submitted these tributes so that I know if I portrayed them right — and I'll be working to get District 2 up soon.**

**-Tasting Raindrops-**


	6. District 2's Reapings

**Here is the next chapter! District 2. Hope you guys like it!**

**Oh, also, for the last chapter, I forgot to mention that I don't cuss. But, obviously other people do, and that includes the tributes. So if a tribute says or thinks a cuss word, than I will put a substitution word in brackets in its place, and you guys can fill in the word actually used, if you wish to. If the word _isn't_ in brackets, than that is actually the word the tribute thought/said. It's important to recognize the difference when it comes to different tributes' personalities. ;)**

**_DISCLAIMER:_ Still not mine. Neither are the characters in this chapter, besides the small mention of that girl, what's her name… Giella Something-or-other (I'm too lazy to check :p ).**

***Shout out to TealCrystalCat: I felt the need to give Silver a last name; that's just the first thing that came to mind. Let me know if you would like me to change it to something else! It's just that she has known parents, so she kinda needs a last name….**

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_**-Lucius Greystone, District 2-**_

A dim, gray light filters through the canopy of tree leaves above me, but most of the woods are still doused in darkness. The dirt floor is covered in sparse patterns of light.

I stuff my hands in my pockets to ward off the chill of the early morning as I weave through the trees down the familiar path I've wandered down countless of times. Even though I'm staring at the ground, my foot will still occasionally catch on roots or weeds, but I kick it free and keep trudging. The sharp smell of dew fills my nostrils as I try to clear my head, but so far I haven't really succeeded.

Absently, my fingers glance across the faint bruise on my cheek as my mind roams to Giella Sunnders. I never would have guessed she had such a good backhand. Course, it should never have gotten to the point where I had to personally experience it. That was a bit of a mess up, and I wish I had gotten the chance to apologize to her at the party. Sam had shoved only one drink down my throat, and look at the mess that got us into. Brick hadn't been there to tell us to stop, so we kept going. Sam drank even more. I quit after just that one, but it didn't make any difference, we went too far anyway.

We really need to learn how to stop. And Brick will kick our [butts] about the whole incident for sure when he finds out.

With a sigh, I lean against a tree and turn my head up. The sky's a lighter blue now and the sun is slightly higher, a cue for me to get back to the house and prepare for the reapings. I'm volunteering, after all.

_**-Silver Kriss, District 2-**_

"You know, I've always wondered if there is such a thing as too much silver."

Ash is sprawled out on the couch, examining me with narrowed eyes as I enter the living room.

"Then _you_ walk in," she continues, "and I remember that there _is_." Her expression is humorous, and I playfully shove her arm as I slump down in the small available space left on the couch.

"I disagree, Ash," I say, smiling.

She pushes herself up to make more room for me and raises her eyebrows. "Sure you do, but, honey, trust me. You are completely bleached of any color whatsoever."

I just shrug in response. What can I say? I like the color silver.

Just then, Fern walks in with a brush going through her dark hair, eyelids barely managing to stay up. Not even bothering to ask for a seat, she sinks down with her back resting against the couch, sitting on the floor.

"Why, twin, doesn't somebody look lovely!"

Fern doesn't even bother to glance up at Ash. "You better be referring to Silver."

"Nope, I was referring to that nest sitting on top of your head that you call hair. You know, if you're wanting to support bird rights or whatever, you really should go for—"

"Anybody know what's for breakfast?" I ask, cutting off the well-known sisters' banter that was sure to follow Ash's comment.

The reply is instantaneous. "Rose is making it," Fern and Ash say simultaneously, followed by, "Jinx!" from Fern with a smug look.

Before Ash gets the chance to make any sort of comeback, Rose calls from the kitchen, "Breakfast, come and get it!"

Without hesitation, we all go and get it. Rose doesn't like to be kept waiting.

The whole time we're at the kitchen table, Fern and Ash are bickering about stuff that, well, sisters _do _bicker about. They're twins, both sixteen, my age. Rose is also their sister, but she does everything around the house just like a mother would. The three of them are my half sisters.

See, my mother had been a merchant, and I would have grown up with her and probably never would have met Rose, Fern, or Ash if she hadn't died giving birth to me. But she did, so I was sent to live with my dad and his family. I can't say I'm glad that my mom died because that's not true. I miss her, miss not ever getting to know her. But I am glad I moved here, too, and met everyone. They're some of my best friends, and I love them. I mean, they're my family.

_**-Lucius Greystone, District 2-**_

When I get back home, the house is fairly quiet, everyone going about their own business. I go back to the bathroom and undress, tossing my clothes in a pile, and step into the shower. My family is pretty well off and can afford some delicacies such as this. We aren't the richest, but we sure do a lot better than a good amount of people in the districts.

After I've dressed for the reaping in a none-too-extravagant gray v-neck and jeans and quickly towel-dried my light blonde hair, I grab an apple from the kitchen and shout a brief goodbye to the rest of the house. By the time I make it to the front door, I hear another door open to my left.

"Leaving already?"

It's Sorensie. I face her. "What's it look like I'm doing?" I take a bite out of my apple.

Sorensie just raises one of her eyebrows and clucks her tongue. Her hair is swiped into a clip to the side, spilling over one shoulder in thick, red curls. She's wearing a frilly, cream-colored dress, and, with her two-inch heels, the top of her head almost reaches my shoulders. "Well, I'm going with you," she announces. Skipping past me, she opens the door and heads outside. Sorensie glances back at me, still standing in the doorway, and beckons for me to follow.

With an exasperated shake of my head, I trek on after her.

After a few minutes of walking, silent besides my chewing, Sorensie looks up at me. "So, Luc, was the party fun?" she begins, nonchalantly.

I blink at her and swallow. "You know about that?"

"Oh, please." She smirks. "Of course I know about it. Lucky for you, Mom and Dad's bedroom is quite a bit farther from your room than mine is, so I'm the only one who knows."

I exhale. "Thank God. Mom would freak if she found out I snuck out."

Sorensie full on smiles. I can't say it's a particularly nice smile.

"Believe me, I know. So I'm not planning on telling her or Dad."

We go several more steps without a word, and then Sorensie sighs.

My eyes narrow in concern. "What's up?"

She chuckles blandly. "Just the reapings." She rolls her eyes, and I understand what she means.

My father is a big supporter of the Capitol and the Games, and Mom and I both seem to kind of follow in his footsteps. But not Sorensie. She's always been a bit more sensitive and has repeatedly expressed her feelings about the Games when we're at the house. Right now though, she can't say anything bad about them. Faithful Peacekeepers and cameras could be hiding anywhere, and Lord knows what would be done if anyone spoke out against the Capitol.

Taking a deep breath, Sorensie continues, "I just think it's going to be hard to watch you be in the Games. But I know you'll be great!" she adds on a cheerier note. Her eyes are full of confidence as she watches me. "You're amazing in training, and you'll be the one to come back home. I know it."

I just nod in response, not sure how to react to her blatant certainty in me winning.

"Now, you probably don't want to hear a ton of that, though," she says, laughing. "But I know what I want to hear about. That party! You never told me how it was."

The rest of the way to the square, I tell her all about last night. She giggles and gasps at the appropriate times. She even scolds me when I tell her about Giella, but I don't mind. That's how it's always been between us. We tell each other everything and give advice. We're not afraid to tell the other they made a stupid move — and that's exactly what Sorensie tells me when we enter the square. I nod. I'm aware enough to know I made a stupid move.

A low voice comes from behind, startling us. "What did Luc do that was stupid?"

Before I get the chance to think up with an answer, Sorensie turns and says, "The usual, Brick."

Brick huffs. "'Course."

The three of us stand awkwardly for a moment, and then Sorensie speaks up. "Well, if you guys don't mind, I'm just going to go head over to the fourteens' section now."

Brick and I nod absentmindedly, and she skips away, waving at a few guys she passes.

"Where's Sam?" I ask Brick as we make our way to the eighteens. A brunette is trying to catch my eye, and I gaze at her as I take another bite of my apple. She waves her fingers at me.

"Sam's not here yet. My guess is he drank last night?" Brick says gruffly.

A quick, humorless laugh escapes me, and I turn my attention back to him. "Even more than usual."

"Well than I wouldn't expect him to try too hard to get here on time."

_**-Silver Kriss, District 2-**_

These heels are absolutely _killing_ my feet. Suppressing the urge to just rip the shoes off and go barefoot, I trot up to my friends waiting in the square, waving.

Kiara immediately breaks from the group to give me a hug. "What's up, girl?" she asks with a smile, but her eyes tell me she isn't as happy as she's trying to make herself out to be. The reapings tend to have that effect on most people, I've come to notice.

"The reapings," I reply with a slight frown. Seems the reapings have the same affect on me, too.

Kevin holds up his hand, and I give him a high five. He and Kiara I met once when I was mining. Since then, we've kept each other company in the gem mines while we work and have become good friends.

Chris is also there, and I walk over to him and grab his hand. "Hello there," I say to him, looking up at him through my eyelashes.

"Hello," he says, bending down to kiss my forehead. When his head pulls back up, he surveys me. "Don't you look beautiful."

"Really?" Relief floods through me. "I was worried 'cause Ash told me I was wearing too much silver, so she gave me these shoes to give me some color, but I thought the bright pink was just too much and—"

"Hey, hey, hey, don't panic! You look great no matter what you wear." Chris's expression is sincere, and I relax. If he thinks I look fine, I look fine. But I still hate the shoes.

We talk for a little bit. Fern and Ash came to join us, and we all joke around, trying to lighten the mood. At one point, Kiara completely freaks out about being drawn, her or any one of us. We all try to reassure her, and I tell Kiara that it isn't going to happen. We live in District 2, after all. Someone is bound to volunteer no matter who is chosen, so there is no reason to worry. There are plenty of people worried enough about their reputation to volunteer for the attention, or people who have been training for the Games all of their lives. So the chance is one in a million of being drawn and then _actually_ going to the Games. She eventually settles down.

Eventually, Chris has to leave to go to the group of seventeen-year-olds. We break away from the others to talk privately.

The two of us stand there, looking at each other, unsure of what to say. I rest my forehead against Chris's chest and then whisper, "You can't get chosen."

I pull my head back to look him in the eye. "Promise me you won't be picked."

Chris presses his lips together for a moment, sad humor in his eyes. "Promise."

I know that Chris has no control over whether or not his name is drawn, but it feels better just to hear him promise me that. It makes it feel like there is actually a good chance he won't be drawn.

We kiss briefly, and then he's gone to go to his section. Kiara, Kevin, Fern, and Ash already left for the sixteens, and I somberly follow. I really dislike these reapings.

A tap on my shoulder sends me jumping practically a foot in the air. I spin around. "Wha—"

Two people, a dark haired girl and a blonde one, are standing there, hands on hips, smirks decorating their faces.

"Clare, is this the girl who's dating your twin?" scoffs the blonde girl.

The other replies, "Yup, I'm pretty sure this is the _lucky_ girl."

They give me a once over, and I bite my lip. I don't know why they've never seemed to like me. What have I ever done to them? "Oh, hi, Clare. Hi Glass. Yes, I am the her." I try to keep any venom I feel out of my voice. I don't want to give them a reason to hate me more than they already seem to.

Clare's mouth twitches. "It's good you realize what a blessing Chris is in your bland life. Maybe you're not as big of an idiot as I thought."

I purse my lips.

"So," Clare continues, "you're volunteering today, right?"

There's no way to keep the surprise off of my face. My mouth opens slightly. _What are they talking about?_

Glass is the first to respond to my stunned expression. "Wait, so you're not? Clare, I don't think Silver is volunteering."

Clare looks at Glass. "I don't think she is either." She turns back to me. "That's not good."

"What's not good?" The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

"You're not volunteering. Oh well." Clare stares at me with hard eyes. "You know, if you really want to break with him, you can just do it directly and tell him that."

I'm stunned and, frankly, pretty offended. They think I want to break up with Chris?

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" I cry.

Clare throws her hands out, palms out as though she was stopping traffic. "Please. I know you know that Chris wants you to volunteer, but you're just too chicken to do it. You don't have to get all defensive about it, it's completely understandable."

"I still don't get it," I say. "Chris _wants_ me to _volunteer?_"

Clare smirks. "Yes, that's what I just said. Of course," she adds, "he probably hasn't worked up the nerve to tell you that directly. But believe me, he's told me _plenty_ of times about how he thinks it would be so brave and _hot_ for a girl to volunteer."

All I can do is stare incredulously at her. _Chris wants me to volunteer?_

"But if I were you, I wouldn't dare," continues Clare. "It's not worth risk."

Throughout Clare's entire speech, Glass just stands with her arms crossed and hip kicked out to one side, nodding for emphasis. Now she pulls her arms down and puts one over Clare's shoulders. "Come on, Clare," she sneers. "I'm sure Silver has better things to be doing… like finding a new boyfriend."

And they stomp off, leaving me openmouthed and completely torn.

In a bitter haze, I go over the sixteens and find everyone else. They are deep in conversation, and I just nod and mutter an occasional, "Yeah," when the time seems right.

My mind is elsewhere, trying to sort out what just happened. I still can't believe it. Chris wants me to volunteer. For the Hunger Games. That's crazy! _Insane!_ I just talked to him a few minutes ago, and he seemed just as worried as I was that one of us would be forced into the Games… _didn't he?_ I think back to our brief discussion. I had made him swear that he wouldn't be in the Games. But he never said anything about how he hoped _I_ wouldn't be….

Oh no.

When the escort — I don't know what exactly her name is, this is her first year in District 2 — walks up to the microphone after the mayor gave his speech, I still can't focus. It's not until she pulls a slip of paper from the girls' reaping ball that I comprehend what she's saying.

Before she even finishes reading out the name, "Natala Hersh," my feet move of their own accord, fighting their way through the crowd around me.

"I volunteer!"

It takes me a second to realize that I was the one who shouted.

My brain doesn't seem to be processing much right now.

I distantly hear gasps from my friends, and I'm pretty sure someone even starts to cry, but I don't turn around to confirm. I just keep moving forward until I'm on the stage standing next to the escort.

"I- I'm Silver Kriss, and I volunteer," I manage to tell the escort when she looks at me questioningly.

I wonder if she can see the alarm in my eyes at my own words.

The world blurs as the escort moves to the guys' reaping ball, and my head feels unusually heavy. I wonder if I'm about to faint. I've never fainted before, and I wonder if this is what it feels like right before everything goes black.

Momentarily forgetting about everyone else, I close my eyes and focus on breathing. The back of my throat starts to burn, and I try to ignore it. When I open my eyes back up, my head feels normal again, but a single tear leaks down my face.

_**-Lucius Greystone, District 2-**_

"I volunteer as the male tribute!" I yell.

There's a pause, and then the new escort, Rimia Brooks, drops the slip of paper she had just been about to read off of back into the ball.

I confidently stride up the steps to the stage. Then I stop next to Rimia; I hold out my hand and give her my best smile.

She blinks a few times, and then beams back, shaking my hand. When she turns back to the microphone, she sounds a little bewildered. "We have our male Vict— I mean, tribute," she stammers. Shaking her head slightly, she hands the microphone over to me to give my name.

"Lucius Greystone," I say into the mike. I find a random girl standing amongst the seventeens, a girl I've never met in my life. "But you can call me Luc," I tell her and wink.

I don't pay any more attention to her, but I'm pretty sure she blushes beet red and giggles. The poor, deluded girl.

I hand the mike back over to Rimia and let her finish the little spiel that she ends every reaping ceremony with. Then I shake hands with Silver, the female tribute. She's pretty attractive, I would say, with a nice body and round, pale blue eyes, though now they are full of tears. The main downfall, though, is the amount of silver on her. As if her name wasn't enough, she has long, silver hair and is wearing a silver dress. Between Silver and Rimia — who seems to be very fond of glitter as well as the color silver — even my gray tee is a relief.

After one final goodbye to District 2 and the cameras, Rimia tells us it's time for the goodbyes, and then the Peacekeepers lead us away. A few people clap, but mostly scurries of feet follow her words.

Amidst the noise, I think I might have heard a girl yell, "I love you, Luc!"

But I can't be sure.

I toss my apple core into a nearby trash bin on my way into the Justice Building.

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**Please let me know what you thought in a review! If you spot any mistakes or anything at all, tell me, and I'll go fix it, I promise. So tell me! Come on, you know you want to...**

**Reviews make my day! :D**

**-Tasting Raindrops-**


	7. Author's Note and some of D3

**Well, would you look at that, I am alive! Even I was starting to question it, I've been off of here for far too long. For the past several weeks (it's almost been a month, actually) I've had an unusual abundance of homework and projects for school (I have exactly five projects due within about five weeks of each other for English alone); an unusual lack of abundance in sleep, so I've been exhausted consistently; and I've also had an unusual lack of enthusiasm in any and all things, including writing. And reading as well. I don't know what's wrong with me to be honest. I have been in the middle of a _brand new book_ for about a month as well, and another brand new one waiting for me on my shelf. And the weirder thing is that I don't jump for the chance to read it when I do have the time. :O I'm seriously shocked.**

**When I started this story, I promised myself that I would finish the story, and I promise you guys that I will keep my promise for all of you and for myself. It just might take me a long time, and I might need some encouragement because I'm not always that… determined. But it will get done.**

**Long of the short is, I'm sorry it took so dang long to write this next chapter.**

**And the sad thing is that it's not even finished. I just wanted to post this so that you all would know that I haven't given up on the forest or anything, and that I'm still working on it. There will be more of this chapter coming out as soon as I can possibly get it done!**

**Anyway, here is the portion of the next chapter I've managed to write. It's quite pitifully short. This atrociously long AN is close in length. Unfortunately.**

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_**-Kai Taka, District 3-**_

_Tap. Tap. Tap tap._

A rapping on my bedroom window startles me, pulling my attention momentarily away from the mess of wires and gears piled on my little wooden desk. I've been trying to make this clock work for days, but so far it's still dead to the world.

I roughly toss my tools back onto the desk and walk over to the only window in my room where I find Ren standing, poised with her fingernail pecking away at the glass.

"Open this thing up!" Her call is muffled from the glass in between us.

My eyes narrow in confusion at her request, but I don't question her. With a _lot_ of elbow grease, I manage to shove the unused windowpane up far enough to allow Ren's slim frame to climb through. After more tugging, and some light cursing, though, neither one of us can get it to close again.

Sighing in defeat, I sink to the floor, resting against the end of my bed.

Now I question her. "Why the window, exactly?"

Ren's jaw works for a moment, and then she seats herself cross-legged opposite me. She doesn't meet my eyes when she utters, "There were Peacekeepers walking around outside the front of your house."

I press my lips together and take a deep breath. Of course that would be why.

When I first met Ren, I was a mess. A sobbing, delirious mess. I had been wandering aimlessly down the street with the sole intention of just getting away from it all.

I had been exhausted from staying by my father's bedside the entire night. I had only nodded off for a short moment with my head on my shoulder. When I finally woke up again, blinking fast, eyes wide… he was already gone. I couldn't reconcile with myself after that. I was devastated that I had let him go. I had made a promise to myself and to Father that I would stay with him the whole time and that I wouldn't let him leave me. I failed, though. I broke my promise. I fell asleep and hadn't been able to keep him here.

Later that evening, on the brink of night, I was fed up with the house, with my mom, and even with little Scotty who only tried to comfort me. _Me_. I should have been the one that had to comfort _him_. He was only ten years old then.

I had blindly torn out of the front door with only my feet stumbling forward to keep me going. My heart wasn't doing anything to help me move. It was too broken.

That's when I ran into Ren for the first time, literally. I accidentally knocked the sack of fruit she had been holding out of her arms. Apples, oranges, and tomatoes rolled out in all directions. I hastened to pick them all up while muttering apologies, but she just shook her head and told me that they probably would taste like [crud] anyway. So, instead, with a knowing glance at me, she grabbed an apple so bruised it was basically pulp and took a tiny bite out of it.

"Yup," she said, after making a show of spitting out her bite, "it's toast."

It wasn't until she started laughing that I realized she wasn't mad.

Not wanting to get any Peacekeepers on our case, we shoveled all of the mushy fruit into the sack and dropped it in a nearby trashcan when nobody was paying any attention. That was when Ren started to tell me a story.

A story about her life.

Suddenly, mine didn't seem so bad.

She told me how she lived on the streets and had to fend for herself. How she can't stand the sight of Peacekeepers. How her parents were both killed by some.

That night, we became friends. Since then, Ren is the closest — and the only — friend of mine.

After a moment of silence, Ren coughs, hauling me out of my reverie.

"Are you okay?" My voice is dripping with worry. A cough could mean anything here. It could be completely harmless, or it could foreshadow your oncoming death. Without much more than a handful of amateur doctors, it's almost impossible to tell.

Her smile comes easily. "Yes, I'm okay, Kai." At the play on my name, her smile widens to a beam.

I chuckle.

_**-Wylie Freeman, District 3-**_

**I'll have the rest of the chapter as soon as I can. :)**

**-Tasting Raindrops-**


	8. District 3's COMPLETE Reapings

**I'm back. Again. I really hope that is the last time I have to say anything like that. This time I should be back for good. And if not… Hopefully by summer break I will be up, and not just running, but sprinting again. I hope your patience hasn't grown too thin with me. :/**

**This is the complete District 3 reaping chapter that I didn't have finished last update.**

_**DISCLAIMER:**_** I think it's fairly obvious that I don't own **_**The Hunger Games**_**; my writing style and plot ideas could never compare to that of Suzanne Collins'.**

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_**-Kai Taka, District 3-**_

_Tap. Tap. Tap tap._

A rapping on my bedroom window startles me, pulling my attention momentarily away from the mess of wires and gears piled on my little wooden desk. I've been trying to make this clock work for days, but so far it's still dead to the world.

I roughly toss my tools back onto the desk and walk over to the only window in my room where I find Ren standing, poised with her fingernail pecking away at the glass.

"Open this thing up!" Her call is muffled from the glass in between us.

My eyes narrow in confusion at her request, but I don't question her. With a _lot_ of elbow grease, I manage to shove the unused windowpane up far enough to allow Ren's slim frame to climb through. After more tugging, and some light cursing, though, neither one of us can get it to close again.

Sighing in defeat, I sink to the floor, resting against the end of my bed.

Now I question her. "Why the window, exactly?"

Ren's jaw works for a moment, and then she seats herself cross-legged opposite me. She doesn't meet my eyes when she utters, "There were Peacekeepers walking around outside the front of your house."

I press my lips together and take a deep breath. Of course that would be why.

When I first met Ren, I was a mess. A sobbing, delirious mess. I had been wandering aimlessly down the street with the sole intention of just getting away from it all.

I had been exhausted from staying by my father's bedside the entire night. I had only nodded off for a short moment with my head on my shoulder. When I finally woke up again, blinking fast, eyes wide… he was already gone. I couldn't reconcile with myself after that. I was devastated that I had let him go. I had made a promise to myself and to Father that I would stay with him the whole time and that I wouldn't let him leave me. I failed, though. I broke my promise. I fell asleep and hadn't been able to keep him here.

Later that evening, on the brink of night, I was fed up with the house, with my mom, and even with little Scotty who only tried to comfort me. _Me_. I should have been the one that had to comfort _him_. He was only ten years old then.

I had blindly torn out of the front door with only my feet stumbling forward to keep me going. My heart wasn't doing anything to help me move. It was too broken.

That's when I ran into Ren for the first time, literally. I accidentally knocked the sack of fruit she had been holding out of her arms. Apples, oranges, and tomatoes rolled out in all directions. I hastened to pick them all up while muttering apologies, but she just shook her head and told me that they probably would taste like [crud] anyway. So, instead, with a knowing glance at me, she grabbed an apple so bruised it was basically pulp and took a tiny bite out of it.

"Yup," she said, after making a show of spitting out her bite, "it's toast."

It wasn't until she started laughing that I realized she wasn't mad.

Not wanting to get any Peacekeepers on our case, we shoveled all of the mushy fruit into the sack and dropped it in a nearby trashcan when nobody was paying any attention. That was when Ren started to tell me a story.

A story about her life.

Suddenly, mine didn't seem so bad.

She told me how she lived on the streets and had to fend for herself. How she can't stand the sight of Peacekeepers. How her parents were both killed by some.

That night, we became friends. Since then, Ren is the closest — and the only — friend of mine.

After a moment of silence, Ren coughs, hauling me out of my reverie.

"Are you okay?" My voice is dripping with worry. A cough could mean anything here. It could be completely harmless, or it could foreshadow your oncoming death. Without much more than a handful of amateur doctors, it's almost impossible to tell.

Her smile comes easily. "Yes, I'm okay, Kai." At the play on my name, her smile widens to a beam.

I chuckle.

_**-Wylie Freeman, District 3-**_

I shove my hair back from my forehead with one hand as I work. Sweat has started to bead on the sides of my face from my concentration.

This could be my biggest accomplishment yet, and that's saying something.

For the past week, I've pushed aside my monotonous robot creations to make way for a bigger, grander idea. A riskier, probably incredibly stupid idea.

I'm going to hack into the Capitol's technology using my insignificant little trashed computer — a computer that I had found being thrown out of a factory and had managed to revive after a few hours of diligent experimenting.

When I thought up this _Idea_, I didn't really believe it. Didn't think it was possible. But look at me now, a hair's breadth away from a huge, great—

Nothing. _[Shoot]._

The screen, without warning, just blacked out and died. The accompanying whir of the monitor died.

_[Crud, crud, crud]!_

I scramble to find the power switch, but I know it's hopeless. A puff of smoke is floating into the air behind the monitor, a sign of the computer's death.

Perfect.

I continue to sit and stare, numb, for another full minute, my fists clenched at my sides in defeat. I begin to lower my head down into my hands, when a flashing light in the corner of the room catches my focus. It's the digital clock I saved about a year ago. The blinking red lights exclaim the time to be _9:02._

I'm about to just ignore it, but a tiny thought nags at the back of my mind. Something kind of important.

Then I remember. The reapings. _[SHOOT]!_

Today just isn't a very good day for me.

With only twenty-eight minutes to get to the square, my feet react before my brain does, and I find myself out the door and leaving the warehouse behind my family's house — the warehouse might as well be my home, though — in the dust.

The last reaping I almost missed, I had left the warehouse around eight fifty and had made it to the square simultaneous to the mayor walking out to the podium.

I hope I've gotten faster. Or I'm in trouble.

My arms beat back and forth by my sides, keeping pace with my long strides. The arches in my feet start to ache. I'm sweating and panting. I swear, if I don't make it….

I make it to the outskirts of the market area; it is completely deserted. All of the doors and windows are closed, all of the food stands barren. In my haste to swerve around one, my elbow knocks a stack of hand weaved baskets. I cringe as the tumble down behind me, but I can't do anything to prevent it. I send a silent apology to whomever they belong to.

I round the back corner of a nicer, brick building and come within a foot of slamming into a wall of people. I've reached the square.

_**-Kai Taka, District 3-**_

The mayor must be delayed. The drawing was supposed to have started four minutes ago, according to the giant clock on the Justice Building. It's not a huge delay, but I would like for the anxiety to stop. I want this day to be over and done with, I want for nobody I know to be harmed by these reapings. Heck, I don't want _anybody_ to be harmed for any _reaping_. But seeing as there is nothing that I can do, I content myself with standing silently in the back of the crowd of seventeens. I'm alone. Ren is eighteen, so I won't get to speak to her until after the reaping.

The people around me are restless. Shuffling feet, tapping fingers, biting lips, mindless chatter of half-thoughts — anything to keep their thoughts from becoming their solitary concentration. Nobody pays me any mind; no one ever does. I'm just the girl with the blank face. The one no one knows and no one cares to know. The one they pity, but in the same way they _pity_ a dead squirrel. _Poor squirrel_, they would say. But it is one of many, and they would avoid its dead corpse.

An impatient shoulder shoves by me. It belongs to a broad-shouldered guy, a handful of inches taller than my 5'10". A grunt escapes him in what I optimistically decide to take as an apology.

Not a moment later, the mayor walks onstage.

I drown out his speech. Instead, I peek at around me to keep my mind from considering the option of Scotty being drawn. A few feet from me stands a boy and a girl, hands clasped tightly. The boy has his lips to the girl's ear, whispering. His face is shadowed with melancholy, but the girl is grinning soft as a whisper in response to his words. As the president says the final words of his speech, they kiss for a brief moment and turn to face the stage.

I add the couple to my ever-expanding list of people I hope to not be drawn.

Sigrun Zearna waddles over to take the mayor's place in front of the microphone. She is tipsy from her heels and it adds to the affect of looking as though she was just shocked; her almost yellow stands straight up, tips dyed black as though scorched. Taking her time in the spotlight, she rambles about what an honor it is to continue to be District 3's escort. She states that she has high hopes for this year's tributes and that she knows we won't let her down. God forbid we send her off with another pair of inconsequential, insignificant kids to be dumped in the bullring. What an unfortunate ordeal that would be for her, to have to say encouraging things to a batch of useless, starved children who really have no chance.

I steal myself as she finally plucks a slip of stiff paper from the girls' reaping ball with a flourish. Stealing a glimpse of the adorable couple I observed earlier, I see the girl staring at Sigrun as if just daring her to read her name off of the paper. Her boyfriend, on the other hand, stares directly at the girl as if soaking up what could very well be one of their last moments together.

When the name is read, my immediate reaction is relief in response to the girl's reassured sigh and the boy's thankful smile. But as quick as the feeling came, it fled my body.

It may not have been that girl that was called, but it _was_ this girl.

Me.

My face settles back into my emotionless mask. To any onlooker, I probably appear indifferent. I'm screaming, though, begging, pleading on the inside that this is just a mistake. That neither the girl nor I have been drawn, and that I just misheard some very similar name to my own. However, I know it cannot be true.

Relief echoes in the silence as I stiffly place one foot in front of the other and proceed to the stage. To my left, my eyes manage to find Ren's. Her eyes are wide, mouth agape, tears sliding down her cheeks. I blink hard.

I glare as I walk past Sigrun; she flinches. Standing behind her, I search for the other pair of eyes that I care so much for. Scotty. My strong little brother is crying freely in despair.

My eyes water and the back of my throat stings, but I keep that infamous mask of mine in place and clasp my hands behind me. I cannot bear to look at Scotty as the escort moves to choose the male tribute.

_**-Wylie Freeman, District 3-**_

"And I give you our male tribute, Mr.…" Sigrun pauses for affect. "Scotty Taka!"

You've gotta be _freakin' kidding_ me. A sniffling boy is practically wailing as he stumbles to the stage.

_What the hell, I might as well save the poor kid._

I throw my arm in the air, almost swatting a dude in front of me. "I volunteer!" I bellow. I barely notice as the little boy who had originally been called freezes a foot from the base of the steps.

I chew the inside of my cheek as I shove my way to the stage. I take the steps two at a time and turn swiftly on my heel next to my now-district partner. For a brief second, I see her eyes deliberately close and open again to reveal her the almost unnerving forest green of her irises staring right at me. She keeps her face locked as she murmurs, "Good luck," while we shake hands. I realize that I bumped into her in my rush to stand unobtrusively among the seventeen group. I would have that she would be ticked at me, but I don't see any signs of resentment in her blank face.

As we turn to enter the Justice Building, though, I swear I glimpse the faintest of smiles surfacing on her lips.

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**Please, oh please review so that I know that there are still people who have stuck with me and continue to follow this story even though it's probably more trouble than it's worth!**

**-Tasting Raindrops-**


	9. District 4's Reapings

**The very first thing I have to mention in this chapter is that I know absolutely nothing when it comes to boats and ships, so the part with Elana was all made up. I'm sorry, but it probably won't be accurate in the slightest as to how a boat works, but it's the best I could do. If I did get some things wrong, let's just assume that the boats they use in Panem function differently than the ones we have now. ;)**

**The second thing I have to mention is that this is the absolute fastest I've _ever_ updated a real chapter. I'm really excited! I had hoped to get the chapter out yesterday, but, _alas_, it was not meant to be. :p**

**Anyway, I present to you, District 4!**

**_DISCLAIMER:_ If I were Suzanne Collins, I think you guys would know. ;)**

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_**-Elana, District 4-**_

"Land, ho!" I shout from my perch at the bow of our fishing ship. The salty spray of the water fills my nostrils. I run my hand back through my hair to pull tendrils out of my eyes.

A loud chuckle is the first response I get. I turn around to see old Mo grinning his partially toothless smile at me. He's leaning against the starboard wall, legs crossed, the picture of ease.

"What?" I say defensively. "I've always wanted to say that."

He laughs again and playfully ruffles my hair. At this point, it's pointless to bother fixing it; I leave it be. I'm sure it looks _lovely_.

I roll my eyes and skip off to help the rest of the crew with preparations for docking. I'm excited to be back near land. Almost constantly this time of year we're out fishing in the ocean, not too far from the coast since the law requires us to stay within a certain distance, but we don't bother docking every day. Most of the time, we'll just sit out on the water for days, even weeks, at a time, the sun and wind our only other companions.

"Elana!" calls a gruff voice.

Without so much a glance from my work, I nod and reply, "Yeah, Bort?"

"I need some help with the sail. It's caught up there. Mind helpin'?"

"Okay." I check to make sure what I had been doing with the nets is covered by another crewman, and then I go over to the main mast where a burly, hairy man stands. "Give me a lift?"

Wordlessly, Bort helps lift me up so I can scramble up the mast to detach a piece of caught sail from one of the many hooks and other oddly shaped things.

I am the only girl aboard this ship, and I also happen to be the lightest person. So I am the one that acts as the retriever for anything and everything hard to reach.

I'm straddling one of the arms of the mast, legs tightly wrapped around it, and carefully pick off the stuck sail with my nimble fingers. Satisfied, I slide back down the mast and stick the landing with both feet quite well. I didn't stumble in the slightest. Thumbs up for me!

Bort thanks me, and I tell him it was nothing. I enjoy working on the ship, whether that means monkey-climbing the masts or untangling the nets or scrubbing the deck. Just being here is enjoyable.

The ship jerks for a brief moment; we're here!

I run to the side of the ship, bare feet slapping the deck, and look out at the jumble that is District 4.

Yes, the ship is enjoyable. But solid land is comforting, and I could use some rock just about now to stand steady on.

I scramble with the others to make last minute preparations, and then I'm running off the ship. The wood of the dock is too much like that of the deck; I don't stop sprinting until I've reached the dirt of the ground. Laughing, I hop around. I don't care that I look crazy. I'm just glad to be back.

Spinning, I catch sight of two distinguishable people: a girl with legs too long and a boy with hair too white. Despite my dizziness, I skip to them. Barely pausing to break, I throw my arms around the two of them. We teeter for a moment, balance overthrown, but we don't fall over.

They gently pat me on the back before pulling back.

"How have you guys been?" My excitement to see them again is obvious is my voice. "I've missed you both!"

Mishan scratches the back of his blonde head uncomfortably. Lyeela shuffles uneasily and grimaces.

My mood vanishes. "What's up?" I can't help it; horrible pictures are forming in my mind of what could be wrong. Has Mishan's mother gotten sick, worse than last time? Did a Peacekeeper do something horrible?

Lyeela answers first, the one who can work up the courage to lay down bad news. God knows she's had to do it plenty of times before. "The reapings are happening today."

I groan and throw my face in my hands. How could I not have known? I'm thankful Mo and the crew decided to dock a day earlier than originally planned. Out on the water, there are no separate days, just periods of light interrupted by a black sky and stars for several hours. There are no worries on the ship. Suddenly, being back on land isn't as good as I wanted it to be. I want to go back to the ocean and forget the stress of real life.

Mishan and Lyeela look at me with sympathetic eyes as I process the information.

"So," I say into the silence, "what time does it start?"

"About an hour." Mishan glances around for any signs, but there isn't a clock to be found.

Distantly, I hear Mo calling for me back from the ship. I tell Lyeela and Mishan to hold on two seconds while I go see what Mo wants.

I jog over to him. He's standing next to a pile of boxes filled with our nets and other fishing supplies. "Yeah?"

"Are ya gonna go with them kids over there?"

"Um, yes." I have to hold my hand up to block the sunlight. "Actually, the reapings are going to begin soon." Mo grumbles something unpleasant about where the Capitol can shove the reapings. I shoot him a warning look. "I've got to go change, and then I can meet you at the square, okay?"

Mo nods absently before shouting to burly Bort about the unloading of the ship.

"I've got a small problem," is the first thing I say when I come back to Lyeela and Mishan.

"What?" they say simultaneously.

I finger my ratty tank and shorts. "I don't think they'll much appreciate me showing up like this, and at the moment I don't have any other options." There's no need to mention who _they_ are.

Mishan steps back and surveys me thoroughly. "I kind of like it. Rough."

"Like you don't give a [crud]," adds Lyeela.

"Well, I don't want any more tally marks against me," I respond bitterly. Being someone who works on a ship, the Peacekeepers never seem to be too approving. They are all suspicious that we'll somehow find a way to get past the giant wall cutting through the ocean that marks the border of our district.

They bob their heads in understanding.

"I've got something might be able to work." One look at Lyeela, and I doubt anything of hers will fit me. She's a tall beanpole of a girl, while I'm only 5'3". I'd have to role up a pair of her pants at least four times to keep from tripping.

Hesitant, I answer. "Okay…."

_**-Falcon Jones, District 4-**_

The reaping should be interesting today. I actually kind of feel bad for whichever sad girl has to be my district partner. She won't last five minutes in the Games. I'll make sure of it.

I lounge around in the square, hands in pockets, leaning against a building just on the outside edge of the seventeens' section. Having decided that this is the year I will claim as my own in Hunger Games history, I take this opportunity to examine the sorry faces of the girls that could be my partner. So far, no one of any interest. Besides, it's a 98% chance that none of these people I've looked at will even ever be going into the Games, let alone this year. Lucky them. Gives themselves at least another year alive, not that most of them have any choice, unlike me.

I yawn loudly and stretch, then push myself off the wall. I amble through the gathering crowd, letting people make way for me. No one ever dares to get within my reach.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a familiar head of dark curly locks. She notices me, gives a quick wave before turning back to a group of jabbering girls. And that is that. Amber and I rarely ever hang around each other outside of school. Compared to how often I acknowledge Damien, though, it's something.

Having no use for anyone, I go back to my previous spot against the wall. People stiffen as I pass them; exhales of relief follow behind me. I smirk in satisfaction. Better to have people fear you if gives you power. That's how it's always been for me, especially after my parents died three years ago. It makes it possible to earn a living when people are too scared to defy me.

Although, after these Games, I won't have to work to survive anymore. I'll have everything given to me to live easily from now on. And I'll be famous.

_**-Elana, District 4-**_

As it turns out, Lyeela actually had at hand a pair of gray cargo Capri's that fit me more like pants and a snug but comfortable blue tank. I will admit, I'm quite surprised.

When we arrive at the square, Lyeela says goodbye and walks to the sixteens' section while Mishan and I join a group of other fifteen-year-olds. I chat with them, but I can't stop distressing about the reapings. This is the worst day of the year, and I can't believe I lost track of it. One good thing did come out of that though: a few days less to stress. At least I got sleep last night.

The mayor walks on stage and makes his speech about the point of the Games, to torture us as punishment for the fight we caused a century ago. He brings up the point about how the Capitol almost decided to make the Games even more malicious after the stunt several years ago involving that girl, Katniss.

The thought of the Games being more horrifying than they already are sends shivers down my spine. Of course, this one being a mysterious Quarter Quell, it_ could _be even worse this year. I pray that I won't have to find out personally.

_**-Falcon Jones, District 4-**_

I ignore the mayor's monotonous lecture. When the escort, Nathanial Shine, adorned with an electric blue Mohawk, saunters up, however, I straighten immediately and step away from the building. As if pressing fast forward, I don't see anything until Nathanial selects the female tribute's slip.

His voice is infuriatingly squeaky as he reads off the name. "Elana…" Nathanial trails off, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. "Elana!" he repeats more confidently.

For some reason, Elana — whoever she is — appears to be without a last name.

I expect disorder to arise due to the lack of a name, but it's quickly clear whom he has called.

A round-faced girl steps up to the stage. She appears shell-shocked. The look of fear hidden in her green, almost gray, eyes tells me that she won't be too difficult to knock off. Maybe I'll even let someone else take her; she won't be that impressive of a kill.

Then Nathanial moves to draw the boy's name, but I won't have any of it.

I bellow, "I'm the male tribute."

Taking my time, I stroll to the stage, a satisfied grin on my mouth.

Nathanial scrutinizes me for a moment, and I examine him back. He's dressed only in nets and ropes, and I have the strong desire to gag. Might not want to look too closely at him.

Nathanial exclaims to the audience that we shall be the year's tributes from District 4. He begins to elaborate, but I clear my throat. Noting my impatience, Nathanial, much like a hurt puppy, murmurs something unintelligible and has us shake hands, as is customary.

When Elana turns to face me, though, I just sneer down my nose at her. She's short, so it's not hard to. Her hand is held out expectantly, and I notice that it shakes almost imperceptibly. I don't offer my hand back.

An awkward moment later, Nathanial says, "This year shall be the best yet!"

We are dismissed into the Justice Building.

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**Please review! I'll love you if you do!**

**-Tasting Raindrops-**


	10. District 5's Reapings

**Hey, everybody! I haven't been on FanFiction in forever, and it feels amazing to be back! But before I say much else, I have to give a shout out to Immortal42! This wonderful person sent me a PM asking me to update this story again. Before I got the message, I had kind of lost hope in TTAO. Now, though, I'm working on it again. I got the message last night, and since then I've written this chapter. I hope that it is just as good, if not better, than the beginning of the story and that it will continue to improve. FanFiction gets me to write, and write hard, and I miss having that immediate initiative to get it done. With other writing, I don't have a deadline, but, on here, I feel like I do. And it is a very good and productive feeling. ;)**

**I hope I haven't upset you guys too much. I know I'm not that reliable of an updater (in the slightest). I know that I keep doing this disappearing act and then pop back up after hope of return is long past. I know that that is the way it might always be, but it sure feels good to think that, for the moment, that isn't the case. Hopefully this moment will last a really long time.**

_**DISCLAIMER: **_** I am me, and proud to be (look at that, I can rhyme). Therefore, I am not Suzanne Collins and do not own **_**The Hunger Games**_**.**

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_**-Potion Cadway, Escort of District 5-**_

My fingers drum against the wall; my plastic nails click impatiently. The sun is getting too high in the sky. A quick glance at the clock on the nearest camera proves the sun to be true. He's late.

_Where is he?_

My thoughts echo the whispers among the camera crew and even some Peacekeepers stationed nearby. They have all noticed that the mayor is behind schedule. _And yet I'm going to be the one that has to answer to the Capitol,_ I think bitterly. I had repeatedly checked that he was informed of the time, and still he refuses to be punctual. Who knows what trouble I'll be in if the reaping schedule is thrown off.

_This might be my last time as an escort._

I blink at the sudden thought. It's true. If the mayor takes much longer, this reaping will take too long, and it will mess up the rest of the districts' times. I will no doubt be punished for it. _But that bad of a punishment?_ I'm not sure.

Heaving a sigh, I push off from the side of the Justice Building I rest against and walk up to the podium. I fit my hand around the microphone, considering. I need to do something, so I might as well get this event moving. We have a tight schedule, and the train conductor is going to be a bit ticked if I don't have the tributes boarded on time.

I puff out my cheeks and work up the nerve to actually say something to get it all rolling, when an eruption of clapping ripples through the crowd. Behind is the mayor — finally — dressed in his suit and tie, teeth glinting in his smile as though nothing is amiss. I squint up at the giant clock on the Justice Building. Only eight minutes late.

As the mayor takes the microphone and begins speaking, I run through the block schedule and decide that I might just have a chance of cramming everything in without spilling over the limit.

My fingers are crossed that the mayor might have some sense of urgency and that he'll cut his speech short.

I take a moment to listen to his drawn out words and dramatic pauses, oblivious to my anxiety.

I knew it was too much to wish for.

_**-Jewel Johnson, District 5-**_

I'm fidgeting. With my arms crossed over my chest, I tug on the short sleeves of my white dress. It's simple and plain, about the only thing my family can afford. We don't have luxuries. My shoes don't fit quite right, and I shift my weight back and forth, shuffling my feet. The straps will sometimes cut into my skin, but that's the least of my concerns.

In a distant, far off place, the mayor is droning on about the history of the Games. He always makes it seem like that incredible nighttime story that children beg to hear over and over again.

I don't hear much of it today, though. I'm too consumed in thoughts to pay any attention to much that doesn't immediately concern me.

This is the reaping. This could be my chance. All I'd have to do is raise my hand and say my name, and then _I_ could be the one to go into that arena. I would be sentencing myself to either kill or be killed. The former, I know, is the most unlikely. The latter is probable and, if I'm being honest with myself, not unwelcome. I've considered other ways too many times to ignore that the idea of letting go is almost pleasing. Too many times I've gotten so close to calling it quits. Too many times I've lost my nerve and chickened out of doing it. Too many times I've been ignored by everyone. Too many times my family and I have suffered. _Too many times, _I repeat. The words are ominous and empty. Too many times have ended in nothing.

_What about your sister, Chloe? And Mom and Dad?_ It's that petty voice in my head again, the same one that always makes me second-guess myself.

_What about them?_ I retort. It's cruel, but true. If I were to die in the Games, they would no doubt miss me. However, one less mouth to feed could be good for them. I'm sure they won't miss my stomach that much. _Besides_, I realize, _I'm doing this for me. For once, I want to do something for my own benefit._

The voice won't back off. _That's selfish._

My mind blanks of arguments. The voice has got a point.

Slurping up my hesitation like water, the voice trudges on. _You're family will be broken if you die. They'll think that they could have done something to prevent it, and they will always wonder if they could have, especially if you are the one to kill yourself._

_ I'm not killing myself though—,_ I begin, before being cut off.

_If you volunteer to go into the Games aware of the consequences, you might as well be._

I sigh. That voice isn't going to let me win. I know it. With a last, weak attempt, I think, _Nobody has to know that but me._

But I know that won't be the case. If I don't put up a fight, they'll know that I never intended to. Volunteering to do that would only make their pain worse.

I'm about to relent when I spot Evelin out of the corner of my eye. Her back is to me, but her body language tells me everything. Her hands fly about her in her usual frenzy as she speaks to a group of people I've never really known. I've seen them at school and in some classes, but I might have spoken to a couple of them on one occasion or another. I can't even recall their names. Each of them is smiling in spite of the situation at hand. Evelin tends to have that affect on people.

If she were talking to me right now, I would no doubt not be having this inner conflict at the moment. I wouldn't be weighing the pros and cons of dying in the Games. The thing is, though… she's not talking to me. She's talking to people I've never really met. On this day of all days, she isn't by my side. I've always called her my best friend, my only friend. Evelin — otherwise known as Effie, a nickname well earned for her ridged tendency to follow a strict timetable — is the only one who seems to tolerate me. Watching her enjoy herself without me is what makes my decision. She will be all right if — _when_ — I'm gone.

I've been so deep in thought that I only now notice that the escort is up at the microphone. When her arm moves to choose a slip of paper form the girls' reaping ball, I don't think. I just act.

"I—," I begin.

The escort interrupts with a name. "Jewel Johnson!" she exclaims.

I'm surprised. Even though I had just been about to volunteer, my name being called still comes as a shockwave. It's solid and cannot be reversed. Now I don't have a choice.

I hear the intake of breath as I begin to march forward, the standard reaction to a twelve-year-old being chosen.

One disbelieving voice stands out above the others. Chloe's distinctive gasp, "_No!_" hits me hard. I shake it off, though, and continue on.

I've had plenty of practice with broadcasting the emotions deemed necessary, so it isn't difficult to appear distressed like any normal twelve-year-old would. Now that the initial shock has warn off of me officially going into the Games, I'm actually a bit relieved and maybe a bit… eager?

With these Games, I will either die, or I will come out a champion. People will finally notice and care about me. I will no longer be the weird nerd that nobody knows. I will be nothing, or I will be somebody.

_**-Samuel Lee, District 5-**_

She's a small thing, the girl that is drawn to be the female tribute. Her eyes are sad as she approaches the stage, her braid swinging against her back. She gives a weak smile when she stands beside the escort, Potion. The contrast between the two of them is stark. Potion, with her proudly clashing colors and too low-cut and bold top, makes Jewel look washed-out. It was like comparing daring pop art to subdued watercolors. The thought makes me automatically like Jewel.

The escort makes no effort to congratulate Jewel or even pause to give her a smile. The poor thing just sways on the stage, faintly swinging from side to side. Her eyes are distant, and I can only imagine where her mind is. I have a brief second of hope that someone will volunteer for her — but of course no one does. That's the way the world now works. Selfish people only looking out for themselves. Of course, the Games aren't an exciting prospect for anyone besides the Careers.

When it's official that nobody cares enough to take the place of this poor girl, I am relieved that Victoria isn't up on that stage. I've known her forever.

I sneak a peek at her beside me, twirling a strand of her beautiful blonde hair around her forefinger. She only does that when she's anxious.

My immediate reaction is confusion. Victoria already knows that she cannot be chosen. Not today, not ever anymore. This is our last reaping, being eighteen now.

Then I realize that the male's name hasn't been drawn yet. She may be guaranteed to finish living her life, but I haven't yet.

Her unease makes me uncomfortable, and I have the strongest urge to hold her hand. I almost do. But she doesn't know how I feel, and Joey would surely notice if I did. Standing right behind Victoria and I in our usual triangle, it would be hard not to. He's known me since we were eight, and I have the suspicion that he knows how I feel about Victoria. I haven't told anyone, though.

I only get to worry for a moment when Potion pulls out the boy's name.

"Samuel Lee!"

My name rings in my ears.

With a deep breath, I step forward.

Victoria makes the smallest whimper, as though that step has wounded her. I twist around to face her and shrug in defeat before turning back towards the stage. The image of her hand clasped over her mouth stays in front of my eyes, an old photograph. I stow it away to look back at later.

As Potion concludes the reaping, my feet feel numb as I stand there. I stare straight ahead at the crowd without actually seeing anybody. I shove away all feeling so that I can appear calm.

Potion has us briefly shake hands; both of ours tremble.

* * *

**Well, there is District 5. Whatcha guys think? Am I a bit rusty? Let me know in a review!**

**Personally, I think the inner conversation Jewel has is a bit confusing, and I think the ending might sound rushed, but I can't think of anything more to add.**

**-Tasting Raindrops-**


	11. District 6's Reapings

**I've been working on this chapter for a while, and I'm glad to finally have it up. I hope it was worth the wait. This chapter is a bit different from how the others have been so far… I'd like to know what you guys think of it.**

**I'd like to make a quick shout out to Kirbetsy! This person submitted a wonderful tribute that I loved, but didn't have room to fit in as a tribute. So, mostly for my own desire to somehow have him a part of the story in some way or another, I snuck in the character in this chapter. (Hint: His name starts with a **_**D**_**.)**

_**DISCLAIMER: **_** I still don't own **_**The Hunger Games**_**. :/**

* * *

_**-Prescott Richardson, District 6-**_

I inch on tiptoe along the concrete wall, my back against the rough surface. The wall of another building stands boldly three feet from my nose. Shadow is cast over the entire alleyway. Sooty air and gray clouds block the sun, too, much to my advantage. My breathing comes easy but soft as I sneak in between the shops. Their windows are barred, dark, and empty. No one bothers opening on the day of the reaping. Only I am here, with the exception of one rat skittering around a stack of empty crates.

After I've maneuvered around the junk and the rat, I spot my destination. It's a set of rungs bolted into the wall running up to the shop's roof. I reach for the bottom rung, but even with a height of over six feet, I'm barely tall enough to grasp it. I haul myself up, scraping the toes of my boots against the concrete. Finally I'm up high enough for my feet to find purchase on the rungs. I begin to scramble up the side of the building.

A little more than halfway up is an open window. It's only cracked open an inch, so I slide it farther up. There is a small ledge that I'm able to put the toe of my boot on to boost myself through the window.

I do a kind of summersault into the room, rolling back onto my feet into a crouch.

It all looks the same as I left it. The same pile of cardboard boxes in the far left corner, the only door jammed shut and blocked by more boxes, and the light fixture hanging from the ceiling missing its light bulb. The tile floor is still covered in dirt and dust, making my footprints easily noticed.

For the past few days, I've used this room for storage. I found it in a quick escape from a Peacekeeper. Luckily, nobody knows about this place. Not even Gregory.

I don't have many things to store, but the few that I have are valuable.

I walk cautiously over to the boxes in the corner, careful to make little sound. This room might be unoccupied, but the floor below me is a different story.

I open the box with the dented corner. Sure enough, inside that box is my treasure: a raggedy backpack, some fruit, and a loaf of stale bread. Without hesitation, I snatch an apple and sink my teeth into its bruised skin. Juice slides out the corner of my lips and leaves a sticky trail down my chin.

Absently wiping the juice away with the back of my hand, my eyes wander, and I notice something.

One of the biggest boxes in the room sits on its side. Two giant flaps of cardboard cover the opening of the box; one of them limply hangs horizontal, while the bottom flap stands stiff.

_That's not right…_

I crouch to get a better look.

I see a white hand holding up the bottom flap for the briefest moment before I'm knocked backwards. Someone lands on top of me, but he is light enough that I am able to shove him off.

I roll over onto my hands and knees, directly over the guy. He squirms, but I manage to hold down his arms and legs. He isn't very strong, and his skin clings tight over his bones. He's too thin. I know what that means. _Homeless. Just like me._

He spits in my face. His pale, clouded eyes stare furiously up at me.

Wait. Pale, clouded eyes.

_Ah, [shoot]._

I quickly let up and scoot off of him. He shoots up, his fists at the ready, his eyes blankly looking ahead.

Calmly, I stand smoothly and take a step forward, and then he's immediately tackling me again. I trip, and the two of us tumble onto the boxes. Corners jab my sides, and he keeps punching me. I scramble away, setting another stack off balance, and more boxes fall to the floor. They topple over and bury the guy.

He starts shoving at them, and I help to pull them all off. When he is free of the boxes, he continues lying there, his chest quickly rising and falling. His eyes dart around, and his jaw is clenched.

Before he tries to attack me for a third time, I say, "Hey, peace."

He jumps at my voice and starts to scuttle up.

Hastily, I add, "It's all right. I'm one of you."

He stops trying to get up. "What's that mean?" His voice is quiet and weary.

"I live on the streets, too." Slowly, I walk towards him. I start to hold my hand out to help him up, but then I feel stupid when I realize that he can't see it. "Here, let me help you." I go ahead and grab his hand, hauling him off.

One more box falls as he gets to his feet, making a dull thud in the awkward silence. He straightens out his shirt. "Thank—," he starts to say, but abruptly cuts off, head tilted to the side. "[Crud]," he spits out instead.

I hear it too. Heavy, fast footsteps. Several pairs of them, getting steadily louder. Peacekeepers, headed this direction. I blurt a decidedly much worse word than [crud].

I immediately leap for the window opposite the one I entered through. I grunt as I shove it open. "This way," I hiss. "There's an awning." I grab the guy's arm and practically throw him out the window. I've gone out this way before; he should be fine. I jump out after him.

Air whooshes out of me as my back smacks into the taught fabric of the awning, and I feel my weight slide towards the edge. I roll off, landing expertly on my feet. The guy is on his butt beside me, and I help pull him to his feet again.

"You okay?" I ask, grateful that no one else is out at the market today — the reaping takes precedence over the daily grind — because I don't think the owner of this shop would take too kindly to two ragtag people dropping from the sky right in front of it.

"I'm great. Never mind the fact that I won't be able to sit down properly for the next decade," he says, not completely unfriendly.

I bark out a terse laugh, and then glance around nervously. I see the guy's head cock to the side again, and I know he hears the Peacekeepers too. They're climbing up the ladder on the other side of the building into my secret hideout, where my food and backpack are left abandoned. _Guess I'm going to have to scavenge some new provisions,_ I think bitterly. I don't even have my backpack anymore, and I actually bought that thing with hard-earned cash. _[Darn]._

"So," I begin as I grab the guy's arm again and take off along the side of the store, "I haven't gotten your name yet." Our feet slap the pavement hard as we sprint out of sight of the window the Peacekeepers will no doubt follow us out of, but they don't make too much noise — pro of living on the streets, out of the Peacekeepers' paths.

"You haven't exactly told me yours either." His voice bounces with each step.

I roll my eyes.

Several steps later, when I still haven't said a word, he huffs out a curt, "Danny."

Two more steps. "Prescott," I reply.

The rest of our run is silent, neither of us eager enough to chat with the other that we'd waste our breath. I decide that I like him.

_**-Jenna Perry, District 6-**_

I gently twist a lock of hair around my forefinger. Mom tells me that that is the best way to tame my unruly curls. It keeps them together instead of frizzing like the way they want to.

I stare straight into the mirror. It's broken and crooked at the edges. Lips pressed together, I lightly trace the rim of it. Snark broke it about a year ago during one of his drug-crazed fits.

_I hate him._

To this day, I still haven't understood why Mom did it. How could she marry such a despicable human being? To be honest, I don't care why. I don't care if it was because he promised her love and riches. I don't care if it was because he promised her the whole [dang] Capitol and the president's head. He is the lowest of low, and Mom doesn't deserve to be punished. He doesn't deserve her, either. It wouldn't surprise me if she married him just because he asked. She's always lived her life for others, though I know she has more backbone than to just _let_ him marry her.

_What could he have done to make her take him?_

The things that spring to my mind are not pretty.

_I hate him, _I think with even more venom.

My finger slips on the mirror, and it slices easily through my skin. I gasp and pull my hand quickly back. A single drop of blood beads up out of the cut.

Careful not to get any blood on my plain but precious dress, I rinse my finger under the tap.

It's the only source of running water in the house because it's all we can afford to use. My family has had this house for a long time now, longer than I've been alive. We've had it since before my father died in that wild experiment. We had a lot of money, relatively speaking, then. We could afford to live in a big house. Today, though, the sink and the bathtub in the other bathroom are left unused and lonely, a ghostly reminder of the life I could have had… _if it weren't for Snark._

_**-Prescott Richardson, District 6-**_

"Well, that was disappointingly simple."

"You consider running across the entire district 'simple'?"

"I've had to make much more complicated maneuvers in the past to escape Peacekeepers. You're lucky that I didn't have us leaping across rooftops. That, I can tell you, gets a bit more tedious." Danny looks at me questioningly. I shrug and then remember that he can't see me.

We've managed to mush ourselves into the growing crowd in the main square. With the churning forest of people, it was difficult to maneuver in, but it required all the cover we needed to get the Peacekeepers off our backs.

We continue to move through the mob toward the seventeens' section; we're both the same age. Danny and I look a lot alike, too. We have similarly grown out ink black hair and pale skin. Danny is bonier and shorter than I am, though. I stand almost a foot taller than him. Our eyes are the biggest difference. Not only do they distinguish the two of us from each other, they separate us from almost everyone else. Danny, with his blue and clouded over eyes. Me, with my golden left eye and turquoise right eye. The two of us make an unsettling pair, I'm sure, slithering through the mass of bodies.

"Prescott."

The statement comes from behind me. I spin around. "Hey, Gregory."

He looks me over. Dirt covers my clothes, and my knee-high work boots that I've had for Lord knows how long are finally starting to fall apart. He wordlessly tosses me an apple. _Ha_._ Another one._ "Thanks," I mumble.

"The streets are wearing on you, Scotty."

I grind my teeth. "You have to admit, though," I reply, "I'm taking it better than you ever would."

Gregory chuckles and lightly punches my arm. "So what mess have you gotten yourself in this time?"

"I ran across another of my kind — homeless," I add when he raises his eyebrow. "This guy here—." I look over to where Danny had just been. "The guy who _was_ just standing right here, I mean. He must have slipped away."

"Prescott."

I turn back towards him. "Yeah?"

"My offer still stands."

I bite my cheek and nod. "Thanks, but I'm okay on my own. You never know when my experiences could come in handy."

He nods, and something onstage catches his attention. "Looks like the reapings are starting. Best of luck to you."

"You too."

Gregory pats my back before going back to the eighteens' spot.

Gregory's been my friend for years now. After my parents were killed in a lab explosion, he's been the only person I've continued to keep in touch with. Recently, though, we've become stiff around each other. He keeps offering me a room in his house, but I've always refused. I can take care of myself. I don't want to be anyone's burden.

_**-Jenna Perry, District 6-**_

"Today is just the most exciting day of the year, am I right?" The escort's bubbly words are greeted by a positively deathly silence.

"Exciting isn't exactly how I would put it," I mutter to myself.

She plunders on, choosing to be oblivious to the lack of crowd support. "Let's get these Games started!"

The escort looks exactly like a porcelain doll with smooth, almost glossy skin and exaggerated makeup. My mom has a porcelain doll from when she was a young girl. It has been passed through her family for generations. On the day of my first reaping, she gave it to me. Right now it's lying under my bed, seeking refuge from Snark. I know that he would take pleasure in destroying her if she was ever discovered.

The porcelain doll made flesh — I believe her name is actually Porcelaina — waddles in her six-inch heels to the glass ball containing — supposedly — a scrap of paper with every girl's name between twelve and eighteen in the district. A few of those scraps bare my name. I cross my fingers in front of me.

She plucks a name delicately from the bowl and slowly unfolds it. "Congratulations, Jenna Perry!"

My head is an empty chasm, and the words echo against the rock walls. _Jenna, Jenna, Jenna, Jenna…_. My legs are frozen to the ground.

Only the shrill scream of my mother manages to pull me out of my daze.

"_My baby_!"

I'm only half there when I walk towards the stage. The other portion of me is consumed by my mother's sobs. "_Please! Please, not her!_"

When I'm standing by the escort, my attention is completely captured by my brother's shout.

What I see is horrific. The Peacekeepers near Mom have flocked forward, preparing to intervene. She's still hysterically sobbing. A giant of a Peacekeeper surges towards her to shut her up, but Joe thrusts himself in between them. My mouth drops open as he outright punches the Peacekeeper in the jaw. I can only stare as the rest of the Peacekeepers surge like a single wave over Joe. He is blocked from my view, but I know whatever is happening is horrible from the gasps of the people standing near enough to see through the gaps of the Peacekeepers' bodies. I have to resist the urge to run to them and help. Mom has been pulled aside by two Peacekeepers. She is unharmed, but still sniveling and desperately trying to get away. Her body spasms and lurches in the direction of Joe and the other Peacekeepers.

Porcelaina only whispers a soft, "Oh, dear." She is at a loss to do anything else to control the situation.

I have to use all of my self-restraint to keep myself from either going down there and fighting or staying up here and bawling. _He's my brother!_ The last word is a shriek in my head.

A final shout from Joe cuts off eerily. The Peacekeepers disperse to reveal a limp body crumpled in a puddle of red. One of them yanks him aside to the perimeter of the square. Some of the Peacekeepers have broken noses or cut lips or scraped elbows, but none of them can compare to Joe. I can't look at him for more than a second for fear that I could throw up. He is a bloody mess, some of his limbs sticking out at odd angles. From where I stand, I can't tell if he's even still alive.

Now the tears threaten. My throat burns with the fire of despair, and I'm choking on my own breath. _But I need to be strong. They're watching me._

Sponsors need to know that I am not a weakling. I may only be fourteen, but I am not frail. I need the sponsors so that I can live. _Mom is going to need me, especially after…this._ I can't think about what might have happened to Joe. I can't worry about that right now. Right now, I need to focus on getting back, just in case the worst did happen.

I swallow my tears and clench my fists hard enough that my nails pierce the skin of my palm. A different pain to distract me.

Porcelaina is only slightly unsteady as she draws the boy's name. "Prescott Richardson." She's too shaken up to bother with pleasantries this time.

A seventeen-year-old winds through everyone up to the stage, easily spotted do to his incredible height. His face is stone cold. Matched with his height, different colored eyes, and a couple silver bar piercings in his ear cartilage, and he is downright unnerving. At the foot of the steps, he hands an apple over to a grungy twelve-year-old.

Porcelaina sounds deflated as she tells us to shake hands. "The Games are about to begin!" she announces to the crowd as a dismissal.

The blood from my palms smears a bit across Prescott's hand.

_No, Porcelaina,_ I contradict. _The Games have already begun._

* * *

**Well…? Whatcha guys think? It was kind of depressing at the end. :( But I was told that Jenna's brother was to punch a Peacekeeper, and that seemed like the only logical way that it would end up, so… *sniff*.**

**Please review! Feedback is like candy to me! Only better.**

**-Tasting Raindrops-**


	12. What if?

**PLEASE READ THIS A/N — all of it!**

**It wouldn't surprise me if most of the people following this story have quit… I probably would have too, if I were you guys. But for those of you who have stuck through this far — and the really sad thing is, this really isn't **_**that**_** far — I greatly appreciate and thank you! I hope that all of the waiting can be worth it eventually. I can't guarantee anything anymore, but I really wish I could. I want to be able to promise you guys that I will be dedicated to finishing this story, but it seems I'm not very good at finishing long projects that I start on a whim. Unfortunately, this is one of those projects. But I will try. I **_**am**_** trying.**

**Maybe I'll turn this into a multi-media project as well and do some sketches for the story to change things up and catch my own interest in the story again. I'm not the best at sketching, but I've been working on it some recently and maybe I'll work on that for this story along with the writing so that if it takes me a while to get a chapter done, maybe there will be at least **_**something**_** to fill in the long gaps for you guys. If you guys want me to try it, I can see what I can do! I'd upload the pictures to if you do want me to do that. But just as fair warning, this is also an idea sparked on a whim, so who knows how long it will last, either. But I think it will be easier to continue. Maybe this story will end up being a series of drawings? Who knows? But at least it will be something.**

**So, I'll tell yah what. I'm going to put up a poll on my profile page about the whole sketching pictures thing, and we'll see how it turns out. Please vote!**

**Anyway, I'm working on the next reaping chapter and hopefully I'll have it finished soon! I'm kinda breaking more rules by having just an A/N for this chapter, and I apologize, but I wanted to tell everyone my idea as soon as possible! And I just want to be able to say I've been doing **_**something**_** with this story.**

**-Tasting Raindrops**


	13. District 7's Reapings

**Well, I've decided that it's in everyone's best interests if I make these chapters a little shorter. . . Or, a better way to put it, I won't try to make them so drawn-out just to make the chapters longer. This way, I'll get chapters out faster and the story will progress **_**much**_** quicker. And I think everyone will appreciate that. 'Cause after all, this story should get even more interesting the further into the Games it gets. I'm still gonna try to make each reaping interesting some way or another, but some of them might start with the tributes already in the Town Square or something just to make them move a bit faster. This chapter isn't quite like that, but I'm just giving fair warning for the future chapters. Of course, I am still going to do my best to give each character a complete personality and bring them to justice because all of them are unique and interesting in different ways, and I really want to make all of my readers feel like they understand each tribute, to at least some extent.**

**I'd like to give a quick shout out to Hbrooks who told me about a certain song that appears in this chapter. I've come to love the song and listen to it all the time, and it never fails to remind me of the Hunger Games, specifically the reapings. So, it is featured in this chapter. **

**Don't forget to check out and vote on the poll on my profile if you haven't yet!**

_**DISCLAIMER:**_** I can't think of any slightly clever way of saying I don't own the books, so I'll just say I don't own **_**The Hunger Games**_**. I also do not own the song **_**Dead Hearts**_** by Stars, whose lyrics appear in this chapter. :D**

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_**-Callie Mackren, District 7-**_

"Callie, could you _please_ come down now?" Oliver is clearly starting to lose his patience with me. He can wait a little longer though. It won't kill him.

I gaze down through long, finger-like branches at Oliver's upturned face. His hand is up in front of his face blocking the sun, sending a small strip of shadow right over his narrowed blue eyes. I've been told if it weren't for their different color, our eyes would look exactly the same. I don't see how, though. His eyes are always far too serious.

Despite being twins, I've never thought Oliver and I looked alike. His face is terminally straight and concerned, whereas I can never seem to keep from doing _something_ with mine. Whether that be a grin or a grimace, I've been told my face always has some sort of expression on it. I'd probably be terrible at poker.

"_Callie!_" Oliver's voice cracks; it only does that when he's really having to struggle to stay composed.

I give in. "Fine. Calm down, I'm on my way."

My bare hands and feet slither over the trees bark, finding purchase on the trunk with an ease that comes only from years of climbing. I've been doing a lot of it in my lifetime, what with working in the lumber industry since age twelve and everything. Even if I had never started working for the district, I would probably still be an expert tree-climber. I've always had a hard time just staying on the ground. It's far too… flat.

The cool grass is a nice relief on my callused feet once I've hopped down off the last branch of the tree. It sits just behind our house and on the edge of the forest that ferociously surrounds the rest District 7.

Oliver pats my head absentmindedly, mumbling a soft, "Thanks," before turning around and walking back into the house. I debate whether or not to make a joke to try and lighten his mood as I follow him in, but I decide better of it. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't find anything lighthearted very funny. Not on the day of the reaping.

_**-Kienan Chapman, District 7-**_

_Tell me everything that happened,_

_Tell me everything you saw._

Looking around at all of the thirteen-year-olds standing around me, it isn't difficult to conclude that something unfortunate is going to happen. The anxiety in each pair of eyes says it all. I'd bet my eyes are just the same as theirs, just the same as Pedro's standing next to me. In under an hour, though, almost all of their eyes will be lighter. In under an hour, only two families will still look just as morose, if not worse.

_They had lights inside their eyes._

_They had lights inside their eyes._

Pedro and I stand silently, waiting. Neither of us can think of anything suitable to say. Instead, I let lyrics flood my mind, drowning out unwanted memories of this very same day four years ago. Since that day, my older sister's bedroom has gathered cobwebs and her bedspread gathered dust.

_Did you see the closing window,_

_Did you hear the slamming door?_

The mayor enthusiastically recites his usual, stale speech. I don't take interest in it, no differently than anyone else. Even the district escort sitting in a chair at the back of the stage has his head slumped down onto his fist. Although, come to think of it, I don't know that this escort has ever been engrossed in anything. I briefly wonder why he even continues to take a job as an escort; it seems to me as if he'd almost rather be poking needles in his eyes than escort yet another Game.

Finally the mayor finishes his speech, and the droopy-eyed escort is summoned to the podium. His drawling voice matches his bland appearance as he announces his 'excitement' about nearing the start of the Games. The only significant thing about him is the single earring adorning his left ear of a silver arrow with a diamond tip. Other than that, it seemed clear by his scruffiness that he simply didn't care about much of anything.

_They moved forward and my heart died._

_They moved forward and my heart died._

The escort mindlessly runs a hand over his rough cheek as he shoves his other hand into the girls' glass ball. I'm thankful for the split second before he reads off the name that there is no girl for me to fear being drawn.

_Not anymore,_ I unwillingly add. _Not anymore…._

"Callie Mackren." The escort slurs her first and last name awkwardly together, but it's soon obviously apparent that the name was understood.

The seventeens part to allow a slightly stocky, freckled girl to make her way to the stage. Her face is carefully blank when she turns to face the crowd, her eyes staring intently somewhere among the mass of people.

_Please, please tell me what they looked like,_

_Did they seem afraid of you?_

Barely glancing at Callie, the escort prepares to draw the boy's name. Pedro and I look at each other for a moment, silently willing neither of us to have our names read off.

_They were kids that I once knew._

_They were kids that I once knew._

There's a pause as the escort reads the name to himself and then mumbles it into the microphone.

The name is a jumbled mess, and I can't understand it. Pedro, though, looks at me appallingly, in full understanding.

My lungs tighten as the escort reads my name again, clearer this time, and there is no mistaking his words.

_**-Callie Mackren, District 7-**_

A boy named Kienan stands beside, my newly named district partner. He's thin, with dirty blonde hair and a distracted expression. I can tell by his eyes that he's not worrying about the moment, that something else is disturbing him.

I swallow as we wait for our rugged escort to wrap up the reaping. He asks if there are any volunteers, and again I find Oliver's eyes, urging him not to. The tight line of his mouth suggests that he doesn't agree with my thoughts, but he doesn't make any move to take Kienan's place beside me. I let out a relieved sigh.

_**-Kienan Chapman, District 7-**_

I can only feel concern for my mother as I shake hands with Callie. I can only imagine what toll this will take on her, losing both of her children in a bloody, cruel Game.

_I can say it, but won't believe me,_

_You say you do, but you don't deceive me._

_Dead hearts are everywhere!_

_Dead hearts are everywhere!_

* * *

**Okay, there it is! I know it's kind of short, but it's something. Hope to get another chapter out as soon as possible!**

**-Tasting Raindrops**


	14. District 8's Reapings

***clears throat abashedly* Hehe, hi everyone. . . I know it's been a long time, but I've finally finished another chapter. See? *points over-enthusiastically* It's not very long, but it's something! Johnny doesn't say much in this chapter, really just because he doesn't seem like he'd be a very talkative person, even in his own mind.**

**Anyway, I'm on Thanksgiving break now, so I'm hoping I'll have time to write another chapter before going back to school. I've got a ton to do this week, though, so I can't promise anything. :/**

**_DISCLAIMER:_ I don't own The Hunger Games. If I did, they would be far less popular. ;)**

* * *

**_-Lynna Rassorvanni, District 8-_**

I gently slide a brush through my hair as I sit cross-legged on the floor of my bedroom, my back against the wall. Light passes easily through the window above me and rests in streaks across the single bed in the center of the room, illuminating the twisted, wrinkled sheets on my side of the bed and the juxtaposing smoother side where my sister sleeps.

A rose-colored dress lies folded at the end of the bed, a silent reminder of what day it is.

Having procrastinated long enough, I stand and place my brush beside the dress. My fingers run over the stiff fabric, reminding me of the only other two times I've worn this dress. Gritting my teeth, I decide I'd better just get it over with now.

I pull the dress on and adjust the straps; I've grown in the past year. The dress is on the verge of being dangerously short, the hem only reaching mid-thigh. I suppose that's what happens when you suddenly seem to shoot up overnight to be just a couple inches shy of six feet.

After putting on a pair of white shoes, I leave the virtually empty bedroom and walk out into the kitchen.

"You look nice," Linen greets me from a chair at the table. Her dress is a yellow version of mine, but I can already tell it fits her better than mine fits me. Linen has yet to have any kind of major growth spurt, so now I stand a good half-foot taller than her despite the fact that we're twins.

"You too." I take a seat in the chair across from hers. Linen scoots her half-finished plate towards me. I pick up the rest of the bread and begin pulling off small pieces of it to eat. It's stale, but it serves its purpose. I smile my thanks.

Fingers drumming, Linen looks towards our parents' bedroom. "I hope they're almost ready."

I nod. Our parents have a bad habit of waiting until the last possible minute for every occasion. Sometimes that's not a problem, although it's annoying, but the reapings are not something I want to be late to.

Soon enough, though, our parents come out of their room, and together we walk to the square.

**_-Johnny Whiplash, District 8-_**

"Johnny!"

"_What,_Mom?"

"Get down here. Now!"

"_Why?_"

"Because it's time to go!"

"But I don't _want_ to go! I'm _eating_."

"Then bring the food with you!"

"But—"

"Stop whining and _get__down__here_!"

"Ugh, _fine_," I yell back to her. I start gathering my piles of sausage links in my hands, grumbling under my breath.

Getting down the stairs is difficult with my hands so full and my stomach so empty; I'm huffing by the bottom. "Why do we have to have these _stairs_ in our house? I don't like them," I complain.

"Honey, don't you dare start whining again," Mom says exasperatedly. She's waiting by the front door, impatiently holding it open.

I take my sweet time getting to the door, savoring her frustration. I don't want to leave yet, and I want her to know it.

"Thank you," she says when I'm through the door. I give her a sarcastic smile and shove another sausage in my mouth.

The walk to the square is going to be a long one.

**_-Lynna Rassorvanni, District 8-_**

"Guess who?" Cold palms sneak up behind me, over my eyes and cheeks. The voice is exaggeratedly rough and deep, but there's a hint of girlishness to the accent that makes it quite obvious who it is.

I pretend to think for a moment. "Um... Is it Max?"

There's no attempt to cover up the laugh from behind me. The hands peel away, and Kayle says, "Nice try."

I turn and give a quick hug to my best friend. "How are you doing?"

She shrugs. "Decent. You?"

"Same." I glance around at the other fourteen-year-olds lounging around our section of the square. I easily spot Linen in the crowd, but that's the only really familiar face I can find. "So where's Max?" I ask nonchalantly.

"I'm right here."

I spin around to find Max standing behind me with his humorous smirk fitting easily into place across his lips. Noticing his mouth automatically sends my mind reeling back to two months ago when he kissed me behind the textile factory. We're not officially together, but we might as well be.

"Oh, hi." I grin self-consciously. His returning smile is warm.

Today being the day it is, our conversation is strained as we wait for the mayor. Even Kayle runs short on words, so we settle for silently standing in the crowd, sending comfort through brief glances and weak smiles.

The sky is like a mirror reflecting the entire crowd's mood: gray with smog and sorrow. Humidity clings to everyone's skin and seduces my hair to frizz and curl at the ends.

Just as the giant looming clock announces that it is now noon, the mayor strolls onto the stage.

**_-Johnny Whiplash, District 8-_**

I roll my eyes at the fat man with no hair and a dumb smile who begins talking into the microphone as if anyone actually cares. Snickering at his stupidity, I toss another sausage into my mouth.

I stop snickering when I realize that it's my last one.

_Ugh._

**_-Lynna Rassorvanni, District 8-_**

By the time the escort has the mike, I'm biting the inside of my cheek from nerves. I've never been this anxious at the reapings before; I know how dangerous they are, but they've never seemed particularly _real_ to me. Like it could never happen to me. But for whatever reason, I'm starting to feel just how real this really could be.

I have to squint to see the escort, Taliana Marsco, dressed in her bright neon colors. "Hello, everybody! How great it is to see all of your excited faces. Isn't this just a lovely day?" Her question is answered by dead silence, but she continues cheerfully. "It is time to select the District 8's female tribute for this year's Game!"

She swings her turquoise hair over her shoulder as she saunters over to choose an unfortunate girl's name. Her hand hovers over the slips of paper for a brief moment, fingers wiggling, before snatching a small piece of paper.

Someone grabs my hand, and I find myself immediately gripping it with all my strength.

Smile wide, Taliana reads the name into the microphone. "Lynna Rassorvanni!"

_No… no._

My breath comes quick, but I swallow and try to compose myself, turning to look at my friends.

Kayle's eyes have already spilled over with tears, and she appears to be stuffing her fist in her mouth to keep from shouting out loud. Max's face, on the other hand, is relatively blank. The only sign of consciousness in it are his eyes, which are staring intently at our grasping hands.

Tentatively, I let go and watch it drop to his side. His eyes raise slowly to meet mine, but I'm suddenly wrenched toward the stage by an impatient Peacekeeper. I glare accusingly at him, but when he ignores me, I try to look back at Max. I stumble and am forced to keep facing forward as I'm thrown at the stairs.

When I'm onstage, I hear someone cry out.

Linen rushes forward through the mess of the fourteens, screaming that she will volunteer to take my place, but I shake my head violently.

"But Lynna!" she cries in exasperation.

"No," I say. "Linen, I can do this!" That's probably a lie. Who knows if I really can make it out alive? I sure don't. But I do know that I won't let Linen die, especially not for me. I can handle myself. I don't want people thinking that I need others to solve my problems. I _can_ do this, even if it doesn't necessarily mean I'll live.

Linen stares open mouthed at the stage, unsure of what to do. I just glare back at her. When two Peacekeepers start to strut forward, though, she finally backs down and merges back into the throng of people, head down.

"Excellent!" Taliana exclaims, and I glare at her too. She also ignores it.

Then she grabs a slip from the boys' bowl and announces the male tribute to be, "Johnny Whiplash!"

**_-Johnny Whiplash, District 8-_**

My jaw drops when the escort dares to choose me.

This can't be right! I desperately look around for my parents. When I spot my mom, I try to run to her, but the people around me shove me the other way. Their annoyed faces make it clear that they don't care that I've been chosen. In fact, some are relieved. This only makes me more frantic and upset, and pretty soon I'm being dragged to stage by Peacekeepers, shouting for my mom to fix this horrible mistake.

Once standing in front of everyone, I scrunch up my watery eyes and purse my lips. Every one of them is stupid and not worth my attention, so I just scowl at the buildings across the square, pretending nothing just happened. Because nothing did happen. When my parents settle this little misunderstanding out, everything will be just as it was. After all, we are one of the wealthiest family in the district; we own the finest clothing factory. My parents will get me out of this.

With this comforting thought, I settle for imagining what Mother will make for dinner tonight once I'm back home and some other poor fellow — no pun intended — is stuck on a train in my place.

**_-Lynna Rassorvanni, District 8-_**

Johnny Whiplash is an extremely portly boy with squinty gold eyes, about four chins, and, from what he has displayed so far in the reaping, a pompous attitude.

When Taliana tells us to shake hands, I stare down threatening at him, and he leers right back up at me, and both of us are too prideful to offer the other our hand. Again, Taliana continues as if we had both obliged with cheery smiles and cheesy introductions.

And then all too soon, the reapings are over. As I'm escorted into the looming Justice Building, I realize that the reapings have become all too real for me.

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**Thanks for reading and please leave a review! :)**

**-Tasting Raindrops-**


	15. District 9's Reapings

**A lot of you guys probably don't check this story anymore. Some of you guys probably don't even check the entire website anymore… But believe it or not, I'm still here! And I love all of you so much, in a non-awkward way, for giving me a chance with this story, and I hope you'll give me the chance to continue this story. I know I'm _terrible_ at following through with all the things I say I'll do. I'll admit it. And admitting it is the first step to fixing the problem. So that's what I'm going to try to do.**

**I'm on summer break from school now, so hopefully I'll be able to get further in this story. I know I say this all the time, but some time it's gotta be true! ;)**

**I appreciate any and all feedback, so whether it's good or not so good, I'd appreciate it if you take the time to share your thoughts. :)**

**Without further ado, this is District 9's reaping! We're getting closer and closer to the exciting part of the story…**

**_DISCLAIMER: The Hunger Games_ belongs to the amazing Suzanne Collins, definitely not me.**

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_**-Corwin Saelem, District 9-**_

_Dark branches swing solemnly above my head, menacing in their stances. Their swishing leaves sound like whispered secrets all around me, and my eyes dart around with paranoia. The sky is black, a leering grimace over me without even the comfort of a moon._

Where am I? _I wonder. The trees have a certain familiarity to them, but I can't place my finger on it._

_There's a sudden burst of noise at my right: a crash, followed by a victorious shout. Some more scrambling and then the boom of cannon fire. With a start, I realize I must be in the Hunger Games._

_Then all is silent. Even the branches and leaves have stopped telling their secrets for this brief moment. I hold my breathe in anticipation, hyperaware that the killer is nearby, and hold perfectly still._

_Something, though, must have caught the killer's attention because, suddenly, it's no longer quiet. The killer is crashing through the underbrush towards me, and I scramble, as a reflex, up the tree nearest me. I go by feel alone, but I've become so accustomed to climbing that it doesn't take much more effort on my part than usual. By the time the killer is where I was previously standing, I'm too many feet off the ground for any person to reach me._

_Both of us are statues as we wait for the other to make a move._

_My eyes have adjusted more to the night, and I can distinguish the silhouette standing on the ground. I watch as a thin-fingered hand pulls a glimmering knife out from the inside of a jacket and holds it in a tight, prepared fist._

_The clouds move just then, and the moon is no longer hidden. The sudden light illuminates everything around me, and I'm able to see clearly the hand pull back and then whip forward, releasing the knife. It spirals through the air in graceful circles towards me, as if in slow motion. I take a deep breath and get a tighter hold of the tree. I can't help closing my eyes right as the knife is about to hit me._

_But the hit never comes._

_There's a pain-filled scream from someone in the tree behind me. I whip my head around in time to see a small girl fall from the branches behind me and hit the ground, the knife protruding gruesomely from her chest._

_With a sick feeling, I recognize the girl, and my hand's slip._

_"Mabel!" I cry as gravity takes over, and I fall backwards._

Pain lances through my arm as I make impact with the very solid, very real dirt ground, the air whooshing out of my lungs.

"[Shoot]," I gasp when I can breath again. My head is throbbing, but it's my right arm that hurts the most. Grimacing, I use my left to prop myself into a sitting position and look around.

I'm at the base of the giant tree behind my house, the one I always climb when I'm stressed or upset. The sky is still the deep indigo of night.

I groan as I remember how I had climbed it earlier in the evening, worried about the reaping today and my sister's death in the Games. I must have accidentally fallen asleep.

I make a mental note not to ever do that again.

Cursing lightly, I wrap my good arm around the wide tree trunk and pull myself to my feet. It's shaky at first, but I'm able to hobble around the side of the house and up the front steps, my left arm supporting my right across my chest.

Inside the house, I find the clock in the kitchen. It's early enough for me to relax a while before Dad will inevitably wake me up for training.

Relieved, I tiptoe to my bedroom and gently lie down on my bed, adjusting my arm in a position that doesn't hurt too much, and close my eyes.

_**-Artemis deLune, District 9-**_

The advantage of having no friends: no extra people to worry about on reaping day.

Arms crossed, I survey the melancholy seventeen-year-olds standing around me, either lonesome like myself or huddled in small clusters, shoulders hunched over as if shielding themselves from an icy wind. Soft words are exchanged, but they don't mean anything at all. Shallow comforts and reassurances that even _they_ know aren't true.

My lips tighten into a short scowl. Having just one fifteen-year-old brother is more than enough to be anxious about today.

I swear, if that [darned] escort so much as _touches_ Chance's name in that stupid glass ball, I'll…

I spend the next few minutes of waiting imagining what exactly I could do to the poor soul of an escort who tries to pick Chance. None are what I would call pretty fates, to say the least.

_**-Corwin Saelem, District 9-**_

When I arrive at the square in front of the Justice Building, I quickly find my two best friends, and we exchange brief greetings. I'm not really in the mood to say much besides that, but Seete—being Seete, after all—continues talking with Lina, who lingers in our section despite the fact that she is a year younger. I try to appear somewhat attentive to the conversation, but I'm much more content just waiting in silence.

As I wait, my left arm finds its way over to my right, and I hold it carefully.

Earlier this morning, my dad came in to wake me up, whistling and wailing that this could very well be my last chance to save my sorry [butt] from dying if I should be lucky enough to get chosen for the Games today.

Needless to say, my training today was brutal, having only one fully functioning arm, but I managed. The hard part was disguising my injury from my father, but, somehow, I managed. Thankfully our lesson was cut short seeing as we had to wrap things up sooner in order to get to the reaping on time.

Standing here waiting for the reaping to take place, seeing the morose faces of everyone — of Lina, even of Seete, though he hides it well — my mind wanders back to seeing Mabel in the same situation a year ago at her first — and last — reaping….

It makes me remember my mother's sadness after Mabel's death, and the feeling in my chest when my father came home a week later saying she was found dead in the Hunting Grounds, an arrow through her chest. Makes me remember how my father cried for days, locked alone in his room whenever he wasn't working….

I remember being shocked when I first heard him there; he was, and still is, such a strong, stoic figure that I didn't believe it was him, at first. I thought he had shattered. I thought he had finally been broken. I was wrong, though. After that, he was back full force with his usual harshness, and my training with him became almost unbearable, but I knew he was determined to do anything he could to prevent losing me, too, to prevent losing everyone he loved….

My thoughts are cut off when the mayor stands to deliver his speech, a hush falling over the crowd as he begins to speak the same words of years previous.

Lina, taking that as her cue to return to the thirteens' section, whispers a goodbye to Seete, and, with her eyes down and a pink blush creeping up her cheeks, gives a quick peck on my cheek before hurrying away. For a moment, I'm stunned and ignore Seete's raised eyebrows and funny grin. My face grows hot, and red I'm sure. And even though it's reaping day, my stomach does a weird, happy flip, and I think I might even be smiling.

_**-Artemis deLune, District 9-**_

With a grand wave and flourish, our district's escort replaces the mayor at the microphone and says gaily, "Hello! District 9! How have you been?" I actually have to struggle to hold back a laugh at that; apparently I'm the only one, though, as everyone else remains perfects quiet.

He continues, his slanted copper eyes practically glowing. "Let us begin. Ladies!" With an elegant twist of his wrist, he plucks a slip from the glass ball containing the girls' names and reads, "Artemis deLune!"

My head cocks to the side. Then I find myself laughing in bemusement, mostly at the fact that I completely forgot to worry about myself along with my brother. "You mean," I chuckle, looking directly at the escort and pointing at my chest, "me?"

The escort, clearly taken aback, clears his throat. "Ah, yes. You. If you're deLune."

I nod emphatically, my giggles subsiding, and begin to walk towards the stage. The people around me part instantly, as though I have a wicked disease that they might catch within my proximity. Their expressions are shocked. It must seem as though I've lost it to them. Fine by me. Makes me stand out more to the sponsors and gives me an element of unpredictability.

_Yeah, that's right_, I think as I stare down at people below me as I stand on the platform, hoping the cameras get a good picture of my face. _Be weary of me._

_**-Corwin Saelem, District 9-**_

I raise my eyebrows at the girl on stage, not quite sure how to take her reaction. She appears to almost be giggling again, her mouth twitching at the corners.

"Well then. Gentlemen!" the escort shouts to capture our attention again.

The leftover lightness in my chest from Lina disappears as he prepares to choose the male tribute. _Not me,_ I pray. My father wouldn't be able to take it if I were gone, too. I know he wouldn't.

"Corwin Saelem!"

My eyes narrow, and my nose crinkles. Of course. Of course this would happen.

Stiff, my legs take me to stand side-by-side with the girl, Artemis. The entire way my brain is flashing through everything I've ever learned from Dad. He did whatever he could to teach me to live. And now I'm going to use it.

Raising his arms above his head, the escort — now _our, _meaning Artemis's and my own, escort — declares that, "These are your tributes!"

I glance at Artemis and nod to her, and she does the same, albeit with a humorous smirk.

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**Thank you for reading!**

**-Tasting Raindrops-**


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